1 

1 

, 

I 


'i^n 


PREFACE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION. 


*'The  Woman  ik  White"  has  been  received  with  such  marked  fiivor  by 
a  very  large  circle  of  readers,  that  this  volume  scarcely  stands  in  need  of  any 
])refatory  introduction  on  my  part.  All  that  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  say  on 
the  subject  of  the  present  edition — the  first  issued  in  a  portable  and  popular 
form — may  be«summed  up  in  few  words. 

I  have  endeavored,  by  careful  correction  and  revision,  to  make  my  story  as 
worthy  as  I  could  of  a  continuance  of  the  public  approval.  Certain  technical 
errors  which  had  escaped  me  while  I  was  writing  the  book  are  here  rectified. 
None  of  these  little  blemishes  in  the  slightest  degree  interfered  with  the  inter- 
est of  the  narrative — but  it  was  as  well  to  remove  them  at  the  first  opportu- 
nity, out  of  resj^ect  to  my  readers  ;  and  in  this  edition,  accordingly,  they  exist 
no  more. 

Some  doubts  having  been  expressed,  in  certain  captious  quarters,  about 
the  correct  presentation  of  the  legal  "  points  "  incidental  to  the  story,  I  may 
be  permitted  to  mention  that  T  spared  no  i)ains— in  this  instance,  as  in  all  oth- 
ers— to  preserve  myself  from  unintentionally  misleading  my  readers.  A  so- 
licitor of  great  experience  in  his  profession  most  kindly  and  carefully  guidetl 
my  steps,  whenever  the  course  of  the  narrative  led  me  into  the  labyrinth  of 
the  law.  Every  doubtful  question  was  submitted  to  this  gentleman,  before  I 
ventured  on  putting  pen  to  paper  ;  and  all  the  proof-sheets  which  referred  to 
legal  matters  were  corrected  by  his  hand  before  the  story  was  published.  I 
<"an  add,  on  high  judicial  authority,  that  these  precautions  were  not  taken  in 
vain.  The  "law"  in  this  book  has  been  discussed,  since  its  publication,  by 
more  than  one  competent  tribunal,  and  has  been  decided  to  be  sound. 

One  word  more,  before  I  conclude,  in  acknowledgment  of  the  heavy  debt 
of  gratitude  which  I  owe  to  the  reading  public. 

It  is  no  affectation  on  my  part  to  say  that  the  success  of  this  book  has  been 
especially  welcome  to  me,  because  it  implied  the  recognition  of  a  literary  prin- 
ciple which  has  guided  me  since  I  first  addressed  my  readers  in  the  character 
of  a  novelist. 

I  have  always  held  the  old-fashioned  opinion  that  the  primary  object  of  a 
work  of  fiction  should  be  to  tell  a  story  ;  and  I  have  never  believed  that  the 
novelist  who  properly  performed  this  first  condition  of  his  art,  was  in  danger, 

1* 


10  PREFACE. 

on  that  account,  of  ne?^lecting  the  delineation  of  character— for  tliis  plain  rea- 
son, that  the  effect  produced  by  any  narrative  of  events  is  essentially  depend- 
ent, not  on  the  events  themselves,  but  on  the  human  interest  which  is  directly 
connected  with  them.  It  may  be  possible,  in  novel-writing,  to  present  charac- 
ters successfully  without  telling  a  story;  but  it  is  not  possible  to  tell  a  story  suc- 
cessfully without  ])resenting  characters  :  their  existence,  as  recognizable  real- 
iiies,  being  the  sole  condition  on  which  the  story  can  be  efteciively  told.  The 
only  narrative  which  can  hope  to  lay  a  strong  hold  on  the  attention  of  read- 
ers, is  a  narrative  which  interests  them  about  men  and  women — fur  the  per- 
fectly obvious  reason  that  they  are  men  and  women  themselves. 

The  reception  accorded  to  "The  Woman  in  White"  lias  practically  con- 
firmed these  opinions,  and  has  satisfied  me  that  I  may  trust  to  them  in  the 
future.  Here  is  a  novel  which  has  met  with  a  very  kind  reception,  because 
it  is  a  story;  and  here  is  a  story,  the  interest  of  which — as  J  know  by  the 
testimony,  voluntarily  addressed  to  me,  of  the  readers  themselves— is  never 
disconnected  from  the  interest  of  character.  "Laura,"  "Miss  Halcomb'e," 
and  "Anne  Catherick  ;"  "  Count  Fosco,"  "Mr.  Fairlie,"  and  "Walter  Hart- 
right;"  have  made  friends  for  me  wherever  they  have  made  themselves 
known.  I  hope  the  time  is  not  far  distant  when  I  may  meet  those  fiienda 
again,  and  when  I  may  try,  through  the  medium  of  new  characters,  to 
awaken  their  interest  in  another  story. 


THE  WOMAN  IN  WHITE. 


Tlie  Story  begun  by  Walter  Haetright,  of  ClemenVs  Imi^ 
Teacher  of  Drawing. 

I. 

This  is  the  story  of  what  a  Woman's  patience  can  endure,  and 
what  a  Man's  resolution  can  achieve. 

If  the  machinery  of  the  Law  could  be  dej^ended  on  to  fathom  every 
case  of  suspicion,  and  to  conduct  every  process  of  inquiry,  with  mod- 
erate assistance  only  from  the  lubricating  influences  of  oil  of  gold, 
the  events  which  fill  these  pages  might  have  claimed  their  share  of 
the  public  attention  in  a  Court  of  Justice. 

But  the  Law  is  still,  in  certain  inevitable  cases,  the  pre-engaged 
servant  of  the  long  purse ;  and  the  story  is  left  to  be  told,  for  the 
first  time,  in  this  place.  As  the  Judge  might  once  have  heard  it,  so 
the  Reader  shall  hear  it  now.  No  circumstance  of  importance,  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  disclosure,  shall  be  related  on  hear- 
say evidence.  "When  the  w^riter  of  these  introductory  lines  (Walter 
liartright,  by  name)  happens  to  be  more  closely  connected  than  oth- 
ers with  the  incidents  to  be  recorded,  he  will  describe  them  in  his 
own  person.  When  his  experience  fails,  he  will  retire  from  the  po- 
sition of  narrator;  and  his  task  will  be  continued,  from  the  point  at 
which  he  has  left  it  ofi",  by  other  persons  who  can  speak  to  the  cir- 
cumstances under  notice  from  their  own  knowledge,  just  as  clearly 
and  positively  as  he  has  spoken  before  them. 

Thus,  the  story  here  presented  will  be  told  by  more  than  one  pen, 
as  the  story  of  an  offense  against  the  laws  is  told  in  Court  by  more 
than  one  witness — with  the  same  object,  in  both  cases,  to  present  the 
truth  always  in  its  most  direct  and  most  intelligible  aspect ;  and  to 
trace  the  course  of  one  complete  series  of  events,  by  making  the  per- 
sons who  have  been  most  closely  connected  with  them,  at  each  suc- 
cessive stage,  relate  their  own  experience,  word  for  word. 

Let  Walter  Hartright,  teacher  of  drawing,  aged  twenty-eight  years, 
be  heard  first. 


12  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

II. 

It  was  the  last  clay  of  Jul\\  The  long  hot  summer  was  drawing 
to  a  close ;  and  we,  tlie  weary  pilgrims  of  the  London  j^avcment, 
were  beginning  to  think  of  the  cloud-shadows  on  the  cora-fields, 
and  the  autumn  breezes  on  the  sea-shore. 

4  For  my  own  jDoor  j^art,  the  fading  summer  left  me  out  of  health, 
out  of  spirits,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  out  of  money  as  well. 
During  the  past  year,  I  had  not  managed  my  professional  resources 
as  carefully  as  usual ;  and  my  extravagance  now  limited  me  to  the 
prospect  of  spending  the  autumn  economically  between  my  mother's 
cottage  at  Hampstead,  antl  my  own  chambers  in  town. 

The  evening,  I  remember,  was  still  and  cloudy ;  the  London  air 
was  at  its  licaviest ;  the  distant  hum  of  the  street  traffic  was  at  its 
fiiintest;  the  small  pulse  of  the  life  within  me  and  the  great  heart 
of  the  city  around  me  seemed  to  be  sinking  in  unison,  languidly  and 
more  languidly,  with  the  sinking  sun.  I  roused  myself  from  the 
book  which  I  was  dreaming  over  rather  than  reading,  and  left  my 
chambers  to  meet  the  cool  night  air  in  the  suburbs.  It  was  one  of 
the  two  evenings  in  every  week  which  I  was  accustomed  to  spend 
with  my  mother  and  my  sister.  So  I  turned  my  steps  northward,  in 
the  direction  of  Hampstead. 

Events  which  I  have  yet  to  relate  make  it  necessary  to  mention  in 
this  place  that  my  fother  had  been  dead  some  yeai-s  at  the  period 
of  which  I  am  now  writing,  and  that  my  sister  Sarah  and  I  were  the 
sole  survivors  of  a  family  of  five  children.  My  father  was  a  drawing- 
master  before  me.  His  exertions  had  made  him  highly  successful 
in  his  profession;  and  his  aftectionate  anxiety  to  provide  for  the 
future  of  those  who  were  dej^endent  on  his  labors,  had  impelled  him, 
from  the  time  of  his  marriage,  to  devote  to  the  insunng  of  his  life  a 
much  larger  portion  of  his  income  than  most  men  consider  it  neces- 
sary to  set  aside  for  that  puipose.  Thanks  to  his  admirable  pru- 
dence and  self  denial,  my  mother  and  sister  were  left,  after  his  death, 
as  independent  of  the  world  as  they  had  been  during  his  lifetime. 
I  succeeded  to  his  connection,  and  had  every  reason  to  feel  grateful 
for  the  prospect  that  awaited  me  at  my  starting  in  life. 
■^  The  quiet  twilight  was  still  trembling  on  tlie  topmost  ridges  of 
the  heath;  and  the  view  of  London  below  me  had  sunk  into  a  black 
gulf  in  the  shadow  of  the  cloudy  night,  when  I  stood  before  the 
gate  of  my  mother's  cottage.  I  had  hardly  rung  the  bell,  before 
the  house-door  was  opened  violently;  my  worthy  Italian  friend, Pro- 
lessor  Pesca,  appeared  in  the  servant's  place ;  and  darted  out  joy- 
ously to  receive  me,  with  a  shrill  foreign  parody  on  an  English 
cheer. 

On  his  own  account,  and,  I  must  be  allowed  to  add,  on  mine  also, 


THE    AYOMx\.N   IN    WHITE.  1^ 

> 

the  Professor  merits  the  honor  of  a  formal  introduction.  Accident 
has  made  him  the  starting-point  of  the  strange  family  story  which 
it  is  the  pui-pose  of  these  pages  to  unfold.  \ 

/"I  had  lirst  become  acquainted  with  my  Italian  friend  by  meeting 
him  at  certain  great  houses,  where  he  taught  his  own  language  and 
I  taught  drawing.  All  I  then  knew  of  the  history  of  his  life  was, 
that  he  had  once  held  a  situation  in  the  University  of  Padua ;  that 
he  had  left  Italy  for  political  reasons  (the  nature  of  which  he  uni- 
formly declined  to  mention  to  any  one) ;  and  that  he  had  been  for 
many  years  respectably  established  in  London  as  a  teacher  of  lan- 
guages. > 

vWithout  being  actually  a  dwarf— for  he  was  perfectly  well-pro- 
portioned from  head  to  foot — Pesca  was,  I  think,  the  smallest  hu- 
man being.I  ever  saw,  out  of  a  show-room.  Remarkable  anywhere, 
by  his  personal  appearance,  he  was  still  further  distinguished  among 
the  rank  and  file  of  mankind  by  the  harmless  eccentricity  of  his 
character.  The  ruling  idea  of  his  life  appeared  to  be,  that  he  was 
bound  to  show  his  gratitude  to  the  country  which  had  atibrded  him 
an  asylum  and  a  means  of  subsistence,  by  doing  his  utmost  to  tuni 
liimself  into  an  Englishman.  ^-  Kot  content  with  paying  the  nation 
in  general  the  comi^liment  of  invariably  cariwing  an  umlDrella,  and 
invariably  wearing  gaiters  and  a  white  hat,  the  Professor  further  as- 
pired to  become  an  Englishman  in  his  habits  and  amusements,  as 
well  as  in  his  personal  appearance.  Finding  us  distinguished,  as  a 
nation,  by  our  love  of  athletic  exercises,  the  little  man,  in  the  inno- 
cence of  his  heart,  devoted  himself  impromptu  to  all  our  English 
sports  and  pastimes,  whenever  he  had  the  opportunity  of  joining 
them;  firmly  persuaded  that  he  could  adopt  our  national  amuse- 
ments of  the  field,  by  an  effort  of  will,  precisely  as  he  had  adopted 
our  national  gaiters  and  our  national  white  hat. 

I  had  seen  him  risk  his  limbs  blindly  at  a  fox-hunt  and  in  a  crick- 
et-field; and,  soon  afterward,  I  saw  him  risk  his  life,  just  as  blindly, 
in  the  sea  at  Brighton. 

AYe  had  met  there  accidentally,  and  were  bathing  together.  If 
we  had  been  engaged  in  any  exercise  peculiar  to  my  own  nation,  I 
should,  of  course,  have  looked  after  Pesca  carefully;  but,  as  foreigners 
are  generally  quite  as  well  able  to  take  care  of  themselves  in  the  wa- 
ter as  Englishmen,  it  never  occurred  to  me  that  the  art  of  swimming 
might  merely  add  one  more  to  the  list  of  manly  exercises  which  the 
Professor  believed  that  he  could  learn  impromptu.  Soon  after  we 
had  both  struck  out  from  shore,  I  stopped,  finding  my  friend  did  not 
gain  on  me,  and  turned  round  to  look  for  him.  To  my  horror  and 
amazement,  I  saw  nothing  between  me  and  the  beach  but  two  little 
white  arms  which  struggled  for  an  instant  above  the  surface  of  the 
water,  and  then  disappeared  from  view.     When  I  dived  for  him,  the 


14  Tin:  WOMAN  in  white. 

poor  little  man  was  lying  quietly  coiled  up  at  the  bottom,  in  a  hol- 
low of  shingle  looking  by  many  degrees  smaller  than  I  had  ever 
seen  him  look  before.  During  the  few  minutes  that  elapsed  while  I 
was  taking  him  in,  the  air  revived  him,  and  he  ascended  the  steps 
of  the  machine  with  my  assistance.  AVith  the  partial  recovery  of 
his  animation  came  the  return  of  his  wonderful  delusion  on  the  sub- 
ject of  swimming.  As  soon  as  his  chattering  teeth  would  let  liim 
speak,  he  smiled  vacantly,  and  said  he  thought  it  must  have  been 
the  Cramp. 

/  When  he  had  thoroughly  recovered  himself  and  had  joined  me  on 
the  beach,  his  wann  Southern  nature  broke  through  all  artificial  En- 
glish restraints,  in  a  moment.  He  overwhelmed  me  with  the  wildest 
expressions  of  affection — exclaimed  passionately,  in  his  exaggerated 
Italian  way,  that  he  would  hold  his  life,  henceforth,  at  my  disposal 
— and  declared  that  he  should  never  be  happy  again,  until  he  had 
found  an  opportunity  of  proving  his  gratitude  by  rendering  me  some 
service  which  I  might  remember,  on  my  side,  to  the  end  of  my  days. 
I  did  my  best  to  stop  the  torrent  of  his  tears  and  ^protestations, 
by  persisting  in  treating  the  whole  adventure  as  a  good  subject  for 
a  joke;  and  succeeded  at  last,  as  I  imagined,  in  lessening  Pesca's 
overwhelming  sense  of  obligation  to  me.  Little  did  I  think  then — 
little  did  I  think  afterward  when  our  pleasant  holiday  had  drav/n 
to  an  end — that  the  opportunity  of  serving  me  for  which  my  grate- 
ful com2)anion  so  ardently  longed,  was  soon  to  come ;  that  he  was 
eagerly  to  seize  it  on  the  instant ;  and  that,  by  so  doing,  he  was  to 
turn  the  whole  current  of  my  existence  into  a  new  channel,  and  to 
alter  me  to  myself  almost  jDast  recognition. 
J^  /  Yet,  so  it  was.  If  I  had  not  dived  for  Professor  Pesca,  when  he 
lay  under  water  on  his  shingle  bed,  I  should,  in  all  human  probabili- 
ty, never  have  been  connected  with  the  story  which  these  jDages  will 
relate — I  should  never,  perhaps,  have  heard  even  the  name  of  the 
woman,  who  has  lived  in  all  my  thoughts,  who  has  i)ossessed  herself 
of  all  my  energies,  who  has  become  the  one  guiding  influence  that 
now  directs  the  purpose  of  my  life. 

ni. 

Pesca's  face  and  manner,  on  the  evening  when  we  confronted 
each  other  at  my  mother's  gate,  were  more  than  sufficient  to  inform 
me  that  something  extraordinaiy  had  haj)pened.  It  was  quite  use- 
less, however,  to  ask  him  for  an  immediate  explanation.  I  could 
only  conjecture,  while  he  was  dragging  me  in  by  both  hands,  that 
(knowing  my  habits)  he  liad  come  to  the  cottage  to  make  sure  of 
meeting  me  that  night,  and  that  he  had  some  news  to  tell  of  an  un- 
usually agreeable  kind. 

We  both  bounced  into  the  parlor  in  a  highly  abrupt  and  undigni- 


■  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  15 

fied  mjinncr.  My  mother  sat  by  the  open  window,  laughing  and 
fiinning  herself.  Pesca  was  one  of  her  especial  favorites;  and  his 
^vildest  eccentricities  were  always  pardonable  in  her  eyes.  Poor 
dear  soul!  from  the  first  moment  when  she  found  out  that  the  little 
Professor  was  deeply  and  gratefully  attached  to  her  son,  she  opened 
her  heart  to  him  unreservedly,  and  took  all  his  puzzling  foreign  pe- 
culiarities for  granted,  without  so  much  as  attempting  to  understand 
any  one  of  them. 

My  sister  Sarah,  with  all  the  advantages  of  youth,  was,  strangely 
enough,  less  pliable.  She  did  ftill  justice  to  Pesca's  excellent  quali- 
ties of  heart  ;  but  she  could  not  accept  him  implicitly,  as  my  mother 
accepted  him,  for  my  sake.  Her  insular  notions  of  propriety  rose  in 
perpetual  revolt  against  Pesca's  constitutional  contempt  for  appear- 
ances ;  and  she  was  always  more  or  less  undisguisedly  astonished  at 
^ier  mother's  familiarity  with  the  eccentric  little  foreigner.  I  have 
observed,  not  only  in  my  sister's  case,  but  in  the  instances  of  others, 
that  w^e  of  the  young  generation  are  nothing  like  so  hearty  and  so 
impulsive  as  some  of  our  elders.  I  constantly  see  old  people  flushed 
and  excited  by  the  j^rospect  of  some  anticipated  pleasure  which  al- 
together fails  to  rufile  the  tranquillity  of  their  serene  grandchildren. 
Are  we,  I  wonder,  quite  such  genuine  boys  and  girls  now  as  our  sen- 
iors were,  in  theii-  time  ?  Has  the  great  advance  in  education  taken 
rather  too  long  a  stride;  and  are  we, in  these  modern  days,  just  the 
least  trifle  in  the  world  too  well  brought  up  ? 

Without  attempting  to  answer  those  questions  decisively,  I  may  at 
least  record  that  I  never  saw  my  mother  and  my  sister  together  in 
Pesca's  society,  without  finding  my  mother  much  the  younger  wom- 
an of  the  t^'o.  On  this  occasion,  for  example,  while  the  old  lady 
was  laughing  heartily  over  the  boyish  manner  in  which  we  tumbled 
into  the  parlor,  Sarah  was  perturbedly  picking  up  the  broken  pieces 
of  a  tea-cup,  which  the  Professor  had  knocked  ofi"  the  table  in  his 
precipitate  advance  to  meet  me  at  the  door. 

"I  don't  know  what  would  have  happened,  Walter,"  said  my 
mother,  "  if  you  had  delayed  much  longer.  Pesca  has  been  half 
mad  with  impatience;  and  I  have  been  half  mad  with  curiosity. 
The  Professor  has  brought  some  wonderful  news  with  him,  in  which 
he  says  you  are  concerned ;  and  he  has  cruelly  refused  to  give  us 
the  smallest  hint  of  it  till  his  friend  Walter  appeared." 

"  Very  provoking :  it  spoils  the  Set,"  murmured  Sarah  to  herself j 
mournfully  absorbed  over  the  rains  of  the  broken  cup. 

While  these  words  were  being  sj^oken,  Pesca,  happily  and  fussily 
unconscious  of  the  irreparable  wrong  which  the  crockery  had  suf- 
fered at  his  hands,  was  dragging  a  large  arm-chair  to  the  opposite 
end  of  the  room,  so  as  to  command  us  all  three,  in  the  character  of  a 
public  speaker  addressing  an  audience.     Having  turned  the  chair 


16  THE    WOMAN    IN    "WHITE. 

Avith  its  Ixack  toward  us,  lie  jumped  into  it  on  liis  knees,  and  excita- 
lily  addressed  his  small  congregation  of  three  from  an  impromptu 
pulpit. 

"Now,  my  good  dears,"  began  Pesca  (who  always  said  "good 
dears,"  when  lie  meant  "  worthy  friends''),  "listen  to  me.  The  time 
has  come — I  recite  my  good  news — I  speak  at  last." 

"  Hear,  hear  I"  said  my  mother,  humoring  the  joke. 

"The  next  thing  lie  will  break,  mamma,"  whisjiered  Sarah,  "will 
be  the  back  of  the  best  arm-chair." 

"I  go  back  into  my  life,  and  I  address  myself  to  the  noblest  of 
created  beings,"  continued  Pesca,  vehemently  apostrophizing  my  un- 
worthy self,  over  the  top  rail  of  the  chair.  "Who  found  me  dead  at 
the  bottom  of  the  sea  (through  Cramp) ;  and  who  pulled  me  up  to 
the  top ;  and  what  did  I  say  when  I  got  into  my  own  life  and  my 
own  clothes  again  ?" 
V  "^Fuch  more  than  was  at  all  necessary,"  I  answered,  as  doggedly 
as  possible;  for  the  least  encouragement  in  connection  with  this  sub- 
ject invariably  let  loose  the  Professors  emotions  in  a  flood  of  tears. 

"  I  said,"  persisted  Pesca,  "  that  my  life  belonged  to  my  dear 
friend,  Walter,  for  the  rest  of  my  days — and  so  it  does.  I  said  that 
I  should  never  be  haj^py  again  till  I  had  found  the  opjjortunity  of 
doing  a  good  Something  for  Walter — and  I  have  never  been  con- 
tented with  myself  till  this  most  blessed  day.  Now,"  cried  the  en- 
thusiastic little  man  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  the  ovei-flowing  happi- 
ness bursts  out  of  me  at  every  pore  of  my  skin,  like  a  perspiration ; 
for  on  my  faith,  and  soul,  and  honor,  the  something  is  done  at  last, 
and  the  only  word  to  say  now,  is — Right-all-right  ^^ 

It  may  be  necessary  to  explain,  here,  that  Pesca  prided  himself  on 
bt  ing  a  perfect  Englishman  in  his  language,  as  well  as  in  his  dress, 
manners,  and  amusements.  Having  picked  up  a  few  of  our  most 
lamiliar  colloquial  expressions,  he  scattered  them  about  over  his 
conversation  whenever  they  happened  to  occur  to  him,  turning 
them,  in  his  high  relish  for  their  sound  and  his  general  ignorance  of 
their  sense,  into  compound  words  and  repetitions  of  his  own,  and 
always  running  them  into  each  other,  as  if  they  consisted  of  one 
long  syllable. 

"  Among  the  fine  London  houses  where  I  teach  the  language  of 
my  native  countn,-,"  said  the  Professor,  rushing  into  his  long-de- 
ferred explanation  Avithout  another  word  of  i^reface,  "  there  is  one, 
mighty  fine,  in  the  big  place  called  Portland.  You  all  know  where 
that  is?  Yes,  yes  —  course -of- course.  The  fine  house,  my  good 
dears,  lias  got  inside  it  a  fine  family.  A  Mamma,  fair  and  fat ;  three 
young  Misses,  fair  and  fiit ;  two  young  Misters,  fair  and  fat ;  and  a 
Papa,  the  fairest  and  the  fattest  of  all,  who  is  a  mighty  merchant. 
up  to  his  eyes  in  gold — a  fine  man  once,  but  scein.i:  that  he  has  .£':ot 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  17 

a  naked  head  and  two  chins,  fine  no  longer  at  the  present  time. 
Now  mind !  I  teach  the  sublime  Dante  to  the  young  Misses,  and 
ah  1 — my-soul-bless-my-soul ! — it  is  not  in  human  language  to  say 
how  the  sublime  Dante  puzzles  the  pretty  heads  of  all  three !  No 
niatter — all  in  good  time — and  the  more  lessons  the  better  for  me. 
Now  mind !  Imagine  to  yourselves  that  I  am  teaching  the  young 
Misses  to-day,  as  usual.  We  are  all  four  of  us  down  together  in 
the  Hell  of  Dante.  At  the  Seventh  Circle — but  no  matter  for  that : 
all  the  Circles  are  alike  to  the  three  young  Misses,  fair  and  fat — at 
the  Seventh  Circle,  nevertheless,  my  pupils  are  sticking  fast ;  and  I, 
to  set  them  going  again,  recite,  explaui,  and  blow  myself  up  red-hot 
v>'ith  useless  enthusiasm,  when — a  creak  of  boots  in  the  passage  out- 
side, and  in  comes  the  golden  Papa,  the  mighty  merchant  with  the 
naked  head  and  the  two  chins. — Ha !  my  good  dears,  I  am  closer 
than  you  think  for  to  the  business,  now.  Have  you  been  patient  so 
far  ?  or  have  you  said  to  yourselves. '  Deuce- what-the-dcuce  !  Pesca 
is  long-winded  to-night  V  " 

"VVe  declared  that  we  were  deeply  interested.     The  Professor  went 
on: 

"In  his  hand,  the  golden  Papa  has  a  letter;  and  after  he  has 
made  his  excuse  for  disturbing  us  in  our  Infernal  Region  with  the 
common  mortal  Business  of  the  house,  he  addresses  himself  to  the 
three  young  Misses,  and  begins,  as  you  English  begin  every  thing  in 
this  blessed  world  that  you  have  to  say,  with  a  great  O.  '  O,  my 
dears,'  says  the  mighty  merchant, '  I  have  got  here  a  letter  from  my 
friend,  Mr. '  (the  name  has  slipped  out  of  my  mind  ;  but  no  mat- 
ter; we  shall  come  back  to  that:  yes,  yes — right-all-right).  So  the 
Papa  says,  'I  have  got  a  letter  from  my  friend,  the  Mister;  and  he 
wants  a  recommend  from  me,  of  a  drawing-master,  to  go  clown  to 
his  house  in  the  country.'  My-soul-bless-my-soul !  when  I  heard  the 
golden  Papa  say  those  words,  if  I  had  been  big  enough  to  reach  up 
to  him,  I  shoulci  have  j)ut  my  arms  round  his  neck,  and  pressed  him 
to  my  bosom  in  a  long  and  grateful  hug  !  As  it  was,  I  only  bounced 
upon  my  chair.  My  seat  was  on  thorns,  and  my  soul  was  on  fire 
to  speak ;  but  I  held  my  tongue,  and  let  Papa  go  on.  'Perhaps  you 
know,'  says  this  good  man  of  money,  twiddling  his  friend's  letter 
this  way  and  that,  in  his  golden  fingers  and  thumbs,  'perhaps  you 
know,  my  dears,  of  a  drawing-master  that  I  can  recommend  V  The 
three  young  Misses  all  look  at  each  other,  and  then  say  (with  the  in- 
dispensable great  O  to  begin)  '  O,  dear  no,  Papa !  But  here  is  Mr. 
Pesca — '  At  the  mention  of  myself  I  can  hold  no  longer — the 
thought  of  you,  my  good  dears,  mounts  like  blood  to  my  head — I 
start  fi'om  my  seat,  as  if  a  spike  had  grown  up  from  the  ground 
through  the  bottom  of  my  chair — I  address  myself  to  the  mighty 
merchant,  and  I  sav  (English  phrase),  'Dear  sir.  I  have  the  man! 
/ 
] 


18  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Tlic  fii-st  and  foremost  dnnving-raastcr  of  the  world !  Rccomiiicnc 
liiml)y  the  post  to-night,  and  sendliim  off,  bag  and  baggage  (Englisi 
phrase  again — ha  ?),  send  him  off,  bag  and  baggage,  by  the  train  to- 
morrow !'  '  Stop,  stop,'  says  Papa,  'is  he  a  foreigner,  or  an  English 
man  V  *  English  to  the  bone  of  his  back,'  I  answer.  '  Respectable  'i 
says  Papa.  '  Sir,'  I  say  (for  this  last  question  of  his  outrages  me 
and  I  have  done  being  familiar  with  him), 'sir!  the  immortal  fire 
of  genius  bums  in  this  Englishman's  bosom,  and,  what  is  more,  his 
father  had  it  before  him  !'  '  Never  mind,'  says  the  golden  barbarian 
of  a  Papa, '  never  mind  aboui  his  genius,  Mr.  Pesca.  We  don  t  want 
genius  in  this  countrj-,  unless  it  is  accompanied  by  respectability — 
and  then  we  are  verj-  glad  to  have  it,  very  glad  indeed.  Can  your 
friend  produce  testimonials — letters  that  speak  to  his  character  V  I 
wave  my  hand  negligently.  '  Letters  V  I  say.  '  Ha  I  my-soul-bless-my- 
soul  I  I  should  think  so,  indeed  !  Volumes  of  letters  and  port -folios 
of  testimonials,  if  you  like  V  '  One  or  two  will  do,'  says  this  man  of 
phlegm  and  money.  'Let  him  send  them  to  me,  with  his  name  and 
address.  And — stop,  stop,  JVlr.  Pesca — before  you  go  to  your  friend, 
you  had  better  take  a  note.'  '  Bank-note  !'  I  say,  indignantly.  '  No 
bank-note,  if  you  please,  till  my  brave  Englishman  has  earned  it 
first.'  '  Bank-note  !'  says  Papa,  in  a  great  surprise ;  '  who  talked  of 
bank-note  ?  I  mean  a  note  of  the  tcnns — a  memorandum  of  what 
he  is  expected  to  do.  Go  on  with  your  lesson,  Mr.  Pesca,  and  I  will 
give  you  the  necessary  extract  from  my  friend's  letter.'  Down  sitvS 
the  man  of  merchandise  and  money  to  his  pen,  ink,  and  paper  ;  and 
down  I  go  once  again  into  the  Hell  of  Dante,  with  my  three  young- 
Misses  after  me.  In  ten  minutes'  time  the  note  is  written,  and  the 
boots  of  Papa  are  creaking  themselves  away  in  the  passage  outside. 
From  that  moment,  on  my  faith,  and  soul,  and  honor,  I  know  noth- 
ing more  !  The  glorious  thought  that  I  have  caught  my  opportuni- 
ty at  last,  and  that  my  grateful  service  for  my  dearest  friend  in  the 
world  is  as  good  as  done  already,  flics  up  into  my  head  and  makes 
me  dmnk.  How  I  pull  my  young  Misses  and  myself  out  of  our  In- 
fernal Region  again,  how  my  other  business  is  done  afterward,  how 
my  little  bit  of  dinner  slides  itself  down  my  throat,  I  know  no  more 
than  a  man  in  the  moon.  Enough  for  me,  that  here  I  am,  with  the 
mighty  merchant's  note  in  my  hand,  as  large  as  life,  as  liot  as  fire. 
and  as  happy  as  a  king !  Ha  I  ha  !  ha  !  right-right-right-all-right :" 
Here  the  Professor  waved  the  memorandum  of  terms  over  his  head, 
and  ended  his  long  and  voluble  narrative  with  his  shrill  Italian  par 
ody  on  an  English  cheer. 

^\\  mother  rose  the  moment  he  had  done,  with  flushed  cheeks  and 
briglitened  eyes.     She  caught  the  little  man  warmly  by  l^oth  liands. 

'•  My  dear,  good  Pesca,"  slie  said,  "I  never  doubted  your  true  at 
fection  for  Waltei     but  I  am  more  than  ever  persuaded  of  it  now  I" 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  10 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  very  mucli  obliged  to  Professor  Fesca,  for  AVal- 
ter's  sake,"  added  Sarah.  Slie  half  rose,  while  she  spoke,  as  if  to 
approach  the  ann-chair,  in  her  turn ;  but,  observing  that  Pesca  Avas 
rapturously  kissing  my  mothers  hands,  looked  serious,  and  resumed 
her  seat.  "  If  the  familiar  little  man  treats  my  mother  in  that  way, 
how  will  he  treat  me .?"  Faces  sometimes  tell  truth ;  and  that  was 
unquestionably  the  thought  in  Sarah's  mind,  as  she  sat  down  again. 

Although  I  myself  was  gratefully  sensible  of  the  kindness  of  Pes- 
ca's  motives,  my  spirits  were  hardly  so  much  elevated  as  they  ought 
to  have  been  by  the  prospect  of  future  employment  now  placed  be- 
fore me.  When  the  Professor  had  quite  done  with  my  mothers 
hand,  and  when  I  had  warmly  thanked  him  for  his  interference  on 
my  behalf,  I  asked  to  be  allowed  to  look  at  the  note  of  terms  which 
his  respectable  patron  had  drawn  uj)  for  my  inspection. 

Pesca  handed  me  the  paper,  with  a  triumphant  flourish  of  the 
hand. 

"  Read  !"  said  the  little  man,  majestically.  "  I  promise  you,  my 
friend,  the  writing  of  the  golden  Papa  speaks  with  a  tongue  of 
trumpets  for  itself.'' 

The  note  of  terms  was  jDlain,  straightforward,  and  comprehensive, 
at  any  rate.     It  informed  m^e, 

Fixstr^ChartFredericlcJFaklie^ Esquire,  of  Limmeridge  House,  Cum- 
berland, wanted  to  engage  the  services  of  a  thoroughly  competent 
drawing-master,  for  a  jDcriod  of  four  months  certain. 

Secondly,  That  the  duties  which  the  master  was  expected  to  per- 
form Avould  be  of  a  twofold  kind.  He  was  to  suijerintcnd  the  in- 
struction of  two  young  ladies  in  the  art  of  jDainting  in  water-colors  ; 
and  he  was  to  devote  his  leisure  time,  afterward,  to  the  business  of 
repairing  and  mounting  a  valuable  collection  of  drawings,  which 
had  been  suffered  to  fall  into  a  condition  of  total  neglect. 

Thirdly,  That  the  terms  oflered  to  the  person  who  should  under- 
take and  properly  perform  these  duties,  were  four  guineas  a  week ; 
that  he  was  to  reside  at  Limmeridge  House  ;  and  that  he  was  to  be 
treated  there  on  the  footing  of  a  gentleman. 

Fourthly,  and  lastly.  That  no  person  need  think  of  applying  for 
this  situation,  unless  he  could  furnish  the  most  unexceptionable  ref- 
erences to  character  and  abilities.  The  references  Avere  to  be  sent 
to  Mr.  Fairlie's  friend  in  London,  who  was  empowered  to  conclude 
all  necessary  arrangements.  These  instructions  were  followed  by  the 
name  and  address  of  Pesca's  employer  in  Portland-place — and  there 
the  note,  or  memorandum,  ended. 

The  i^rospect  which  this  offer  of  an  engagement  held  out  was  cer- 
tainly an  attractive  one.  The  employment  was  likely  to  be  both 
easy  and  agreeable ;  it  was  proposed  to  me  at  the  autumn  time  of 
the  year,  when  I  was  least  occupied:  and  the  terms,  judging  by  my 


20  I'lH-^    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

prjrsonal  experience  in  my  profession,  were  surprisingly  liberal.  1 
knew  this  ;  I  knew  that  I  ought  to  consider  myself  very  fortunate  if 
I  succeeded  in  securing  the  offered  employment — and  yet,  no  sooner 
had  I  read  4he  memorandum  than  I  felt  an  inexplicable  unwilling-" 
iiess  within  me  to  stir  in  the  matter.  I  had  never  in  the  whole  of 
my  previous  experience  found  my  duty  and  my  inclination  so  pain- 
fully and  so  unaccountably  at  variance  as  I  found  them  now. 

"  Oh,  Walter,  your  father  never  had  such  a  chance  as  this  I"  said 
my  mother,  when  she  had  read  the  note  of  terms  and  had  handed  it 
back  to  me. 

"  Such  distinguished  people  to  know,"  remarked  Sarah,  straight- 
ening herself  in  her  chair;  "  and  on  such  gratifying  terms  of  equali- 
ty too !'' 

"  Yes,  yes ;  the  terms,  in  eveiy  sense,  are  tempting  enough,"  I  re- 
plied, impatiently.  "  But  before  I  send  in  my  testimonials,  I  should 
like  a  little  time  to  consider — " 

"  Consider !''  exclaimed  my  mother.  "  Why,  Walter,  what  is  the 
matter  with  you  ?" 

"  Consider !"  echoed  my  sister.  "  What  a  very  extraordinary  thing 
to  say,  under  the  circumstances !" 

"  Consider !''  chimed  in  the  Professor.  "  What  is  there  to  consider 
a])out?  Answer  me  this  ?  Have  you  not  been  complaining  of  your 
health,  and  have  you  not  been  longing  for  what  you  call  a  smack  of 
the  country  breeze  ?  Well !  there  in  your  hand  is  the  paper  that 
offers  you  perpetual  choking  mouthfuls  of  country  breeze,  for  four 
months' time.  Is  it  not  so  ?  Ha?  Again — j-ou  want  money.  Well! 
Is  four  golden  guineas  a  week  nothing  ?  My-soul-blcss-my-soul ! 
only  give  it  to  me — and  my  boots  shall  creak  like  the  golden  Papa's, 
with  a  sense  of  the  overpowering  richness  of  the  man  who  walks  in 
them  I  Four  guineas  a  week,  and,  more  than  that,  the  charming  so- 
ciety of  two  young  Misses;  and,  more  than  that,  your  bed,  your 
breakfast,  your  dinner,  your  gorging  English  teas  and  lunches  and 
drinks  of  foaming  beer,  all  for  nothing — why,  Walter,  my  dear  good 
friend — deuce-what-the-deuce ! — for  the  fii-st  time  in  my  life  I  have 
not  eyes  enough  in  my  head  to  look  and  wonder  at  you !" 

Neither  my  mother's  evident  astonishment  at  my  behavior,  nor 
Pesca's  fervid  enumeration  of  the  advantages  offered  to  me  by  the 
new  employment,  had  any  effect  in  shaking  my  unreasonable  disin- 
clination to  go  to  Limmeridge  House.  After  starting  all  the  petty 
ol)jections  that  I  could  think  of  to  going  to  Cumberland;  and  after 
liearing  them  answered,  one  after  another,  to  my  own  complete  dis- 
comfiture, I  tried  to  set  up  a  last  obstacle  by  asking  what  was  to  be- 
come of  my  pupils  in  London,  while  I  was  teaching  Mr.  Fairlie's 
young  ladies  to  sketch  from  natuie.  The  obvious  answer  to  this 
v/ac,  that  the  greater  pnrt  of  them  would  be  away  on  their  autumn 


THE    WOMAN    IX    "WHITE.  21 

travels,  and  that  tlie  few  who  remained  at  home  might  be  confided 
to  the  care  of  one  of  my  brother  drawing-masters,  whose  pupils  I 
had  once  taken  off  his  hands  imder  similar  circumstances.  My  sis- 
ter reminded  me  that  this  gentleman  had  expressly  placed  his  serv- 
ices at  my  disposal,  during  the  present  season,  in  case  I  wished  to 
leave  town ;  my  mother  seriously  appealed  to  me  not  to  let  an  idle 
caprice  stand  in  the  way  of  my  own  interests  and  my  own  health ; 
and  Pesca  piteously  entreated  that  I  would  not  wound  him  to  the 
heartj  by  rejecting  the  first  grateful  offer  of  service  that  he  had  been 
able  to  make  to  the  friend  who  had  saved  his  life. 

The  evident  sincerity  and  affection  which  inspired  these  remon- 
strances would  have  influenced  any  man  with  an  atom  of  good  feel- 
ing in  his  composition.  Though  I  could  not  conquer  my  own  un- 
accountable perversity,  I  had  at  least  virtue  enoug\  ^o  be  heartily 
ashamed  of  it,  and  to  end  the  discussion  pleasantly  by  giving  way, 
and  promising  to  do  all  that  was  wanted  of  me. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  merrily  enough  in  humorous  an- 
ticipations of  my  coming  life  with  the  two  young  ladies  in  Cumber- 
land. Pesca,  inspired  by  our  national  grog,  which  appeared  to  get 
into  his  head,  in  the  most  marvelous  manner,  five  minutes  after  it 
had  gone  down  his  throat,  asserted  his  claims  to  be  considered  a 
complete  Englishman  by  making  a  series  of  speeches  in  rapid  suc- 
cession ;  proposing  my  mothers  health,  my  sisters  health,  my  health, 
and  the  healths,  in  mass,  of  Mr.  Fairlie  and  the  two  young  Misses ; 
pathetically  returning  thanks  himself,  immediately  aftei-^'ard,  for 
the  whole  party.  '•  A  secret,  Walter,"  said  my  little  friend  confiden- 
tially, as  we  walked  home  together.  "  I  am  flushed  by  the  recollec- 
tion of  my  own  eloquence.  My  soul  bursts  itself  with  ambition. 
One  of  these  days,  I  go  into  your  noble  Parliament.  It  is  the  dream 
of  my  whole  life  to  be  Honorable  Pesca,  M.P.  I'' 

The  next  morning  I  sent  my  testimonials  to  the  Professor's  em- 
ployer in  Portland  Place.  Three  clays  passed;  and  I  concluded, 
with  secret  satisfaction,  that  my  papers  had  not  been  found  suffi- 
ciently explicit.  On  the  fourth  day,  however,  an  ansvrer  came.  It 
announced  that  Mr.  Fairlie  accepted  my  services,  and  requested  me 
to  start  for  Cumberland  immediately.  All  the  necessary  instructions 
for  my  journey  were  carefully  and  clearly  added  in  a  postscript. 

I  made  my  arrangements,  unwillingly  enough,  for  leaving  London 
early  the  next  day.  Toward  evening  Pesca  looked  in,  on  his  way  to 
a  dinner-party,  to  bid  me  good-bye. 

''  I  shall  dry  my  tears  in  your  absence,"'  said  the  Professor,  gayly, 
'•with  this  glorious  thought.  It  is  my  ausj^icious  nand  that  has 
given  the  first  push  to  your  fortune  in  the  world.  Go,  my  friend ! 
"When  your  sun  shines  in  Cumberland  (English  proverb),  in  the  name 
of  Heaven,  make  your  hay.     Marry  one  of  the  two  young  Misses ;  be- 


22  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

come  Honorable  Ilartiiglit,  M.P. ;  and  when  you  are  on  the  top  of 
the  huklcr,  rcmeniIxT  that  Pcsca,  at  the  bottom,  has  done  it  all  I" 

I  tried  to  laufih  with  my  little  friend  over  his  jjarting  jest,  but  my 
spirits  were  not  to  be  commanded.  Something  jarred  in  me  almost 
painfully,  while  lie  was  speaking  his  light  farewell  words. 

When  I  was  left  alone  again,  nothing  remained  to  be  done  Init  to 
walk  to  tlie  llampstcad  Cottage  and  bid  my  mother  and  Sarah 
good-bye. 

IV. 

The  heat  had  been  painfully  oppressive  all  day;  and  it  was  now 
a  close  and  sultry  niglit. 

My  mother  and  sister  had  spoken  so  many  last  words,  and  had 
begged  me  to  wait  another  five  minutes  so  many  times,  that  it  was 
nearly  midnight  when  the  servant  locked  the  garden-gate  behind 
me.  I  walked  forward  a  few  paces  on  the  shortest  way  back  to 
London  ;  then  stopped  and  hesitated. 

The  moon  was  full  and  broad  in  the  dark  blue  starless  sky ;  and 
tlie  broken  ground  of  the  heath  looked  wild  enough,  in  the  mysteri- 
ous light,  to  be  hundreds  of  miles  away  from  the  great  city  that  lay 
beneath  it.  The  idea  of  descending  any  sooner  than  I  could  help 
into  the  heat  and  gloom  of  London  repelled  me.  The  prospect  of 
going  to  bed  in  my  airless  chambers,  and  the  prospect  'of  gradual 
suffocation,  seemed,  in  my  present  restless  frame  of  mind  and  body, 
to  be  one  and  the  same  thing.  I  determined  to  stroll  home  in  the 
purer  air,  by  the  most  roundabout  way  I  could  take ;  to  follow  the 
white  winding  paths  across  the  lonely  heath  ;  and  to  aj^proach  Lon- 
don through  the  most  open  suburb  by  striking  into  the  Finchley 
road,  and  so  getting  back,  in  the  cool  of  the  new  morning,  by  the 
western  side  of  the  Regent's  Park. 

I  wound  my  way  down  slowly  over  the  Heath,  enjoying  the  di- 
vine stillness  of  the  scene,  and  admiring  the  soft  alternations  of  light 
and  shade  as  they  followed  each  other  over  the  broken  ground  on 
ever}'  side  of  me.  So  long  as  I  was  i)roceeding  through  this  fu-st 
and  prettiest  part  of  my  niglit-walk,  my  mind  remained  passively 
open  to  the  impressions  produced  by  the  view ;  and  I  thought  but 
little  on  any  subject — indeed,  so  far  as  my  own  sensations  wxre  con- 
cerned, I  can  hardly  say  that  I  thought  at  all. 

But  when  I  had  left  the  Heath,  and  had  turned  into  the  by-road, 
where  there  was  less  to  see,  the  ideas  naturally  engendered  by  the 
approaching  change  in  my  habits  and  occupations,  gradually  drevr 
more  and  more  of  my  attention  exclusively  to  themselves.  By  the 
time  I  had  arrived  at  the  end  of  the  road,  I  had  become  completely 
al)Sorbed  in  my  own  fanciful  visions  of  Limmeridge  House,  of  ]VIi'. 
Fairlie,  and  of  the  two  ladies  whose  practice  in  the  art  of  water-color 
painting  I  was  so  soon  to  superintend. 


THE    ^VOMAX    IX    AVHITE.  23 

I  had  now  arrived  at  tliat  particular  point  of  my  walk  where  four 
roads  met — the  road  to  Hampstcad,  along  which  I  had  returned; 
the  road  to  Finchley ;  the  road  to  West  End ;  and  the  road  back 
to  London.  I  had  mechanically  turned  in  this  latter  direction,  and 
was  strolling  along  the  lonely  high-road — idly  wondering,  I  remem- 
ber, what  the  Cumberland  young  ladies  would  look  like — when,  in 
one  moment,  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  body  was  brought  to  a  stop 
by  the  touch  of  a  hand  laid  lightly  and  suddenly  on  my  shoulder 
from  behind  me. 

I  turned  on  the  instant,  with  my  fingers  tightening  round  the  han- 
dle of  my  stick. 
(^^'  There,  in  the  middle  of  the  broad,  bright  high-road — there,  as  if 
it  had  that  moment  sprung  out  of  the  earth  or  dropped  from  the 
heaven — stood  the  figure  of  a  solitary  Woman,  dressed  from  head  to 
foot  in  white  garments ;  her  face  bent  in  grave  inquiry  on  mine,  her 
hand  pointing  to  the  dark  cloud  over  London,  as  I  faced  her. 

I  was  far  too  seriously  startled  by  the  suddenness  with  which  this 
extraordinary  apparition  stood  before  me,  in  the  dead  of  night  and 
in  that  lonely  place,  to  ask  what  she  wanted.  The  strange  woman 
spoke  first. 

'•  Is  that  the  road  to  London  V  she  said. 

I  looked  attentively  at  her,  as  she  put  that  singular  question  to 
me.  It  was  then  nearly  one  o'clock.  All  I  could  discern  distinctly 
])y  the  moonlight  was  a  colorless,  youthful  face,  meagre  and  shaip 
to  look  at,  about  the  cheeks  and  chin ;  large,  grave,  wistfully-atten- 
tive eyes ;  nervous,  uncertain  lips ;  and  light  hair  of  a  pale,  brown- 
ish-yellow hue.  There  was  nothing  wild,  nothing  immodest  in  her 
manner :  it  was  quiet  and  self-controlled,  a  little  melancholy  and  a 
little^louched  by  suspicion ;  not  exactly  the  manner  of  a  lady,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  not  the  manner  of  a  woman  in  the  humblest  rank 
of  life.  The  voice,  little  as  I  had  yet  heard  of  it,  had  something  cu- 
riously still  and  mechanical  in  its  tones,  and  the  utterance  was  re- 
markably rapid.  She  held  a  small  bag  in  her  hand :  and  her  dress 
— bonnet,  shav>'l,  and  gown  all  of  white — was,  so  far  as  I  could  guess, 
certainly  not  composed  of  very  delicate  or  veiy  expensive  materials. 
Her  figure  was  slight,  and  rather  above  the  average  height — her  gait 
and  actions  free  from  the  slightest  approach  to  extravagance.  This 
was  all  that  I  could  observe  of  her,  in  the  dim  light  and  under  the 
perplexingly-strange  cu'cumstances  of  our  meeting.  What  sort  of  a 
woman  she  was,  and  how  she  came  to  be  out  alone  in  the  high-road, 
an  hour  after  midnight,  I  altogether  failed  to  guess.  The  one  thing 
of  which  I  felt  certain  was,  that  the  grossest  of  mankind  could  not 
have  misconstrued  her  motive  in  speaking,  even  at  that  suspiciously 
late  hour  and  in  that  susj^iciously  lonely  place. 

"Did  you  hear  me?*'  she  said,  still  quietly  and  rapidly,  and  with- 


24  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

out  the  least  fretfulness  or  impatience.  "  I  asked  if  tliat  was  the 
way  to  London." 

"  Yes,"  I  replied, "  that  is  the  way :  it  leads  to  St.  John's  Wood 
and  the  Regent's  Park.  You  must  excuse  my  not  answering  you 
before.  I  was  rather  startled  })y  your  sudden  appearance  in  the 
road  ;  and  I  am,  even  now,  quite  unable  to  account  for  it." 

"  You  don't  suspect  me  of  doing  any  thing  wrong,  do  you  ?  I 
have  done  nothing  wrong.  I  have  met  with  an  accident — I  am  veiy 
unfortunate  in  being  here  alone  so  late.  Why  do  you  suspect  me  of 
doing  wrong  ?" 

She  spoke  with  unnecessary  earnestness  and  agitation,  and  shrank 
back  from  me  several  paces.     I  did  my  best  to  re-assure  her. 

"  Pray  don't  suppose  that  I  liave  any  idea  of  suspecting  you,"  I 
said,  "  or  any  other  wish  than  to  be  of  assistance  to  you,  if  I  can.  I 
only  wondered  at  your  appearance  in  the  road,  because  it  seemed  to 
me  to  be  empty  the  instant  before  I  saw  you." 

She  turned,  and  pointed  back  to  a  place  at  the  junction  of  the 
road  to  London  and  the  road  to  Hampstead,  where  there  was  a  gap 
in  the  hedge. 

"  I  heard  you  coming,"  she  said, "  and  hid  there  to  see  what  sort 
of  man  you  were,  before  I  risked  speaking.  I  doubted  and  feared 
about  it  till  you  passed ;  and  then  I  was  obliged  to  steal  after  you, 
and  touch  you." 

Steal  after  me,  and  touch  me  ?  Why  not  call  to  me  ?  Strange,  to 
say  the  least  of  it. 

"  May  I  trust  you  ?"  she  asked.  "  You  don't  think  the  Avorse  of  mc 
])ecause  I  have  met  with  an  accident  ?"  She  stopped  in  confusion ; 
shifted  her  bag  from  one  hand  to  the  other ;  and  sighed  bitterly. 

The  loneliness  and  helplessness  of  the  woman  touched  me.  The 
natural  impulse  to  assist  her  and  to  spare  her,  got  the  better  of  the 
judgment,  the  caution,  the  worldly  tact,  which  an  older,  wiser,  and 
colder  man  might  have  summoned  to  helj)  him  in  this  strange 
emergency. 

''You  may  trust  me  for  any  harmless  purpose,"  I  said.  "If  it 
troubles  you  to  explain  your  strange  situation  to  me,  don't  think  of 
returning  to  the  subject  again.  I  have  no  right  to  ask  you  for  any 
explanations.     Tell  me  liow  I  can  help  you  ;  and  if  I  can,  I  will." 

"You  are  very  kind,  and  I  am  very,  very  thankful  to  have  me" 
you."  The  first  touch  of  womanly  tenderness  that  I  had  heard  fvovA 
her,  trembled  in  her  voice  as  she  said  the  words;  but  no  tears  glis- 
tened in  those  large,  wistfully-attentive  eyes  of  hers,  which  were  still 
fixed  on  me.  "  I  have  only  been  in  London  once  before,"  she  went 
on,  more  and  more  rapidly;  "and  I  know  nothing  about  that  side 
of  it,  yonder.  Can  I  get  a  fly,  or  a  carriage  of  any  kind  ?  Is  it  too 
late?     I  don't  know.     If  you  could  show  mc  where  to  get  a  fly — 


THK    WOMAX    IX    AVHITE.  25 

and  if  you  will  only  promise  not  to  interfere  with  me,  and  to  let  me 
leave  you,  when  and  bow  I  please — I  have  a  friend  in  London  who 
will  be  glad  to  receive  me — I  want  nothing  else — will  you  promise  ?" 

She  looked  anxiously  up  and  down  the  road;  shifted  her  ])ag 
again  from  one  hand  to  the  other ;  repeated  the  words, ''  Will  you 
promise  ?''  and  looked  hard  in  my  face,  with  a  pleading  fear  and 
confusion  that  it  troubled  me  to  see. 

What  could  I  do  ?  Here  was  a  stranger  utterly  and  helplessly  at 
rny  merc}' — and  that  stranger  a  forlorn  woman.  No  house  was  near; 
no  one  was  passing  whom  I  could  consult ;  and  no  earthly  right  ex- 
isted on  my  part  to  give  me  a  power  of  control  over  her,  even  if  I 
had  known  how  to  exercise  it.  I  trace  these  lines,  self-distrustfully, 
with  the  shadows  of  after-events  darkening  the  very  paper  I  write 
on  ;  and  still  I  say,  what  could  I  do  ? 

What  I  did  do,  was  to  try  and  gain  time  by  questioning  her. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  your  friend  in  London  will  receive  you  at  such 
a  late  hour  as  this  V  I  said. 

"  Quite  sure.  Only  say  you'll  let  me  leave  you  when  and  how  I 
please — only  say  you  won't  interfere  with  me.     Will  you  jjromise  ?'' 

As  she  repeated  the  words  for  the  third  time,  she  came  close  to 
me,  and  laid  her  hand,  with  a  sudden  gentle  stealthiness,  on  my 
bosom — a  thin  hand ;  a  cold  hand  (when  I  removed  it  with  mine) 
even  on  that  sultry  night.  Remember  that  I  was  young;  remember 
that  the  hand  which  touched  me  was  a  woman's. 

'•  Will  you  promise  ?'' 

"Yes.''' 

One  word  I  The  little  familiar  word  that  is  on  every  body's  lips, 
every  hour  in  the  day.    Oh  me  I  and  I  tremble,  now,  when  I  write  it. 

We  set  our  faces  toward  London,  and  walked  on  together  in  the 
first  still  hour  of  the  new  day — I,  and  this  woman,  whose  name, 
whose  character,  whose  story,  whose  objects  in  life,  whose  veiy  pres- 
ence by  my  side,  at  that  moment,  were  fathomless  mysteries  to  me. 
It  was  like  a  dream.  Was  I  Walter  Hartright  ?  Was  this  the  well- 
known,  uneventful  road,  where  holiday  people  strolled  on  Sundays? 
Had  I  really  left,  little  more  than  an  hour  since,  the  quiet,  decent, 
conventionally-domestic  atmosphere  of  my  mother's  cottage  ?  I  was 
too  bewildered — too  conscious  also  of  a  vague  sense  of  something 
like  self-reproach — to  speak  to  my  strange  companion  for  some  min- 
utes.    It  was  her  voice  again  that  first  broke  the  silence  between  us. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  something,''  she  said,  suddenly.  "Do  you 
know^  many  people  in  London  V 

"  Yes,  a  great  many." 

"  Many  men  of  rank  and  title  ?''  There  was  an  unmistakable  tone 
of  suspicion  in  the  strange  question.     I  hesitated  about  answering  it. 

"  Some,"  I  said,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

2 


26  THE    AVOMAX    IN'    WHITE. 

"Many" — she  came  to  a  full  stop,  and  looked  me  scarchingly  in 
the  face — "  many  men  of  the  rank  of  Baronet  T 

Too  mucli  astonislied  to  reply,  I  questioned  her  in  my  turn. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

''Because  I  hope,  for  my  oun  s:ike,  there  is  one  Baronet  that  yon 
don't  know." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  his  name  ?" 

''I  can't — I  daren't — I  forget  myself  when  I  mention  it."  She 
spoke  loudly  and  almost  fiercely,  raised  her  clenched  hand  in  the 
air,  and  shook  it  passionately  ;  then,  on  a  sudden,  controlled  herself 
again,  and  added,  in  tones  lowered  to  a  whisper :  '-  Tell  me  which 
of  them  you  know." 

I  could  hardly  refuse  to  humor  her  in  such  a  trifle,  and  I  mention- 
ed three  names.  Two,  the  names  of  fathers  of  families  whose  daugh- 
tei-s  I  had  taught ;  one  the  name  of  a  )>achelor  who  had  once  taken 
me  a  cruise  in  his  yacht,  to  make  sketches  for  him. 

"Ah!  you  ilon't  know  him,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Are 
you  a  man  of  rank  and  title  yourself?" 

"Far  from  it.     I  am  only  a  drawing-master?" 

As  the  reply  passed  my  lips — a  little  bitterly,  perhaps— she  took 
my  anil  with  the  abruptness  which  characterized  all  her  actiors. 

"  Not  a  man  of  rank  and  title,"  she  repeated  to  herself.  "  Thank 
God  !  I  may  trust  7/iw." 

I  had  hitherto  contrived  to  master  my  curiosity  out  of  considera- 
tion for  my  companion  ;  but  it  got  the  better  of  me  now. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  serious  reason  to  complain  of  some  man 
of  rank  and  title?"  I  said.  "I  am  afraid  the  Baronet  whose  name 
you  are  unwilling  to  mention  to  me,  has  done  you  some  grievous 
wrong  ?  Is  he  the  cause  of  your  being  out  here  at  this  strange  time 
of  night  ?*' 

"Don't  ask  me;  don't  make  me  talk  of  it,"  she  answered.  "I'm 
not  lit,  now.*7l  have  been  cruelly  used  and  cruelly  wronged.  Yon 
will  be  kinder  than  ever,  if  you  will  walk  on  f\ist,  and  not  speak  to 
me.    I  sadly  want  to  quiet  myself,  if  I  can." 

We  moved  forward  again  at  a  quick  pace ;  and  for  half  an  hour, 
at  least,  not  a  word  passed  on  either  side.  From  time  to  time,  being 
forbidden  to  make  any  more  inquiries,  I  stole  a  look  at  her  face.  It 
was  always  the  same;  the  lips  close  shut,  the  brow  frowning,  the 
eyes  looking  straight  forward,  eagerly  and  yet  absently.  We  had 
reached  the  first  houses,  and  were  close  on  the  new  Wesleyan  Col- 
lege, before  her  set  features  relaxed,  and  she  spoke  once  more. 

"Do  you  live  in  London  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes."  As  I  answered,  it  struck  me  that  she  might  have  formed 
some  intention  of  appealing  to  me  for  assistance  or  advice,  and  that 
I  ought  to  spare  her  a  possible  disappointment  by  warning  her  of 


THE    WOMxVX    IN   WHITE.  27- 

rny  approaching  absence  from  Lome.  So  I  added  :  "  But  to-morrow 
I  shall  be  away  from  London  for  some  time.  I  am  going  into  the 
country/' 

''  Where  ?''  she  asked.     "  Xoith,  or  south  ?" 

"  North — to  Cumberland."' 

"  Cumberland  I"'  she  repeated  the  word  tenderly.  "  Ah  !  I  wish  I 
was  going  there,  too.     I  was  once  happy  in  Cumberland.*' 

I  tried  again  to  lift  the  veil  that  hung  between  this  woman  and 
me. 

''  Perhaps  you  were  bom,"  1  said,  '*  in  the  beautiful  Lake  country.'' 

"  No,"'  she  answered,  "  I  was  bom  in  Hampshire ;  but  I  once  went 
to  school  for  a  little  while  in  Cumberland.  Lakes  ?  I  don't  remem- 
Ijer  any  lakes.  It's  Limmeridge  village,  and  Limmeridge  House,  I 
should  like  to  see  again." 

It  was  my  tum,  now,  to  stop  suddenly.  In  the  excited  state  of 
my  curiosity,  at  that  moment,  the  chance  reference  to  Mr.  Fairlie's 
place  of  residence,  on  the  lips  of  my  strange  companion,  staggered 
me  with  astonishment. 

'*  Did  Jou  hear  any  body  calling  after  us  V  she  asked,  looking  up 
and  down  the  road  affrightedly,  the  instant  I  stopped. 

'•  Xo,  no.  I  was  only  struck  by  the  name  of  Limmeiidge  House — 
I  heard  it  mentioned  ])y  some  Cumberland  people  a  few  days  since." 

"  Ah  I  not  77(7/  people.  Mrs.  Fairlie  is  dead  ;  and  her  husband  is 
dead ;  and  their  little  girl  may  be  married  and  gone  away  by  this 
time.  I  cant  say  who  lives  at  Limmeridge  now.  If  any  more  are  left 
there  of  that  name,  I  only  know  I  love  them  for  Mrs.  Fairlie"s  sake." 

She  seemed  about  to  say  more ;  but  while  she  was  speaking,  we 
came  within  view  of  the  tumpike,  at  the  top  of  the  Avenue  road. 
Her  hand  tightened  round  my  aiTu,  and  she  looked  anxiously  at  the 
gate  before  us. 

"  Is  the  turnpike  man  looking  out  ?"'  she  asked. 

He  was  not  looking  out;  no  one  else  was  near  the  place  when  we 
passed  through  the  gate.  The  sight  of  the  gas-lamps  and  houses 
seemed  to  agitate  her,  and  to  make  her  impatient. 

"  This  is  London,"'  she  said.  ''  Do  you  see  an}'  carriage  I  can  get  ? 
I  am  tired  and  frightened.  I  want  to  shut  myself  in,  and  be  driven 
away." 

I  explained  to  her  that  we  must  walk  a  little  larther  to  get  to  a 
cab-stand,  unless  we  were  fortunate  enough  to  meet  with  an  empty 
vehicle ;  and  then  tried  to  resume  the  subject  of  Cumberland.  It 
was  uselessr^That  idea  of  shutting  herself  in,  and  being  driven  away, 
had  now  got  full  possession  of  her  mind.  She  could  think  and  talk 
of  nothing  else. 

We  had  hardly  proceeded  a  third  of  the  way  down  the  Avenue 
road  when  I  saw  a  cab  draw  up  at  a  house  a  few  doors  below  us, 


28  THE    AVOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  A  gentleman  got  out  and  let  him- 
self in  at  the  garden  door.  I  hailed  the  cab,  as  the  driver  mom^ted 
the  box  again.  When  ^ve  crossed  the  road,  my  companion's  impa- 
tience increased  to  such  an  extent  that  she  almost  forced  me  to  run. 

''  It's  so  late,"  she  said.     '•  I  am  only  in  a  hurry  because  it's  so  late." 

"I  can't  take  you,  sir,  if  you're  not  going  toward  Tottenham  Court 
road,"  said  the  driver,  civilly,  when  I  opened  the  cab  door.  "  My 
horse  is  dead  beat,  and  I  can't  get  him  no  farther  than  the  stable." 

"Yes,  yes.  That  will  do  for  me.  I'm  going  that  Maj- — I'm  going 
that  way."  She  spoke  with  breathless  eagerness,  and  pressed  by  me 
into  the  cab. 

I  had  assured  myself  that  the  man  was  sober  as  well  as  civil,  before 
I  let  her  enter  the  vehicle.  And  now,  when  she  was  seated  inside,  I 
entreated  her  to  let  me  see  her  set  down  safely  at  her  destination. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  she  said,  vehemently.  "  I'm  quite  safe,  and  quite 
happy  now.  If  you  are  a  gentleman,  remember  your  promise.  Let 
him  drive  on,  till  I  stop  him.  Thank  vou — oh  I  thank  tou,  thank 
you!" 

My  hand  was  on  the  cab  door.  She  caught  it  in  hers,  l.issed  it, 
and  pushed  it  away.  The  cab  drove  off  at  the  same  moment — I 
started  into  the  road,  with  some  vague  idea  of  stopping  it  again,  I 
liardly  knew  why — hesitated  from  dread  of  frightening  and  distress- 
ing her — called,  at  last,  but  not  loudly  enough  to  attract  the  driver's 
attention.  The  sound  of  the  wheels  grew  fainter  in  the  distance — 
the  cab  melted  into  the  black  shadows  on  the  road — the  woman  in 
white  was  gone. 

Ten  minutes,  or  more,  had  passed.  I  was  still  on  the  same  side  of 
the  way;  now  mechanically  walking  forward  a  few  paces ;  now  stop- 
ping again  al)sently.  At  one  moment,  I  found  myself  doul>ting  the 
reality  of  my  own  adventure ;  at  another,  I  was  perplexed  and  dis- 
tressed by  an  uneasy  sense  of  having  done  wrong,  which  yet  left  mc 
confusedly  ignorant  of  how  I  could  have  done  right.  I  hardly  knew 
where  I  was  going,  or  M'hat  I  meant  to  do  next ;  I  was  conscious  of 
nothing  but  the  confusion  of  my  own  thoughts,  when  I  was  abruptly 
recalled  to  myself— awakened,  I  might  almost  say — by  the  sound  of 
rapidly  approaching  wheels  close  behind  me. 

I  was  on  the  dark  side  of  the  road,  in  the  thick  shadow  of  some 
garden  trees,  when  I  stopped  to  look  round.  On  the  opposite  and 
lighter  side  of  the  way,  a  short  distance  below  me,  a  policeman  was 
strolling  along  in  the  direction  of  the  Regent's  Park. 

The  carriage  passed  me^an  open  chaise  driven  by  two  men. 

''  Stop  !"  cried  one.     "  There's  a  policeman.     Let's  ask  him.'' 

The  horse  was  instantly  pulled  up,  a  few  yards  beyond  the  dark 
place  where  I  stood. 


/ 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVHITE. 


Vj^ 


"  Policeman  !''  cried  the  first  speaker.  "  Have  you  seen  a  woman 
pass  this  way  ?" 

''  What  sort  of  woman,  sir  ?■' 

"A  woman  in  a  lavender-colored  gown — '' 

"No,  no,''  interposed  the  second  man.  "  The  clothes  we  gave  her 
were  found  on  her  bed.  She  must  have  gone  away  in  the  clothes 
she  wore  when  she  came  to  us.  In  white,  policeman.  A  woman  in 
white." 

"  I  haven't  seen  her,  sir," 

"If  you,  or  any  of  your  men,  meet  with  the  woman,  stop  her,  and 
send  her,  in  careful  keeping,  to  that  address.  I'll  pay  all  expenses, 
and  a  fair  reward  into  the  bargain." 

The  policeman  looked  at  the  card  that  was  handed  down  to  him. 

"Why  are  we  to  stop  her,  sir ?     What  has  she  done  ?"' 

"Done  I  She  has  escaped  from  my  Asylum.  Don't  forget:  a 
woman  in  white.  ^  Drive  onT"---„ — -" ' 


V. 

"  She  has  escajDed  from  my  Asylum  I" 

I  can  not  say  with  truth  that  the  terrible  inference  which  those 
words  suggested  flashed  upon  me  like  a  new  revelation.  Some  of  the 
strange  questions  put  to  me  by  the  woman  in  white,  after  my  ill-con- 
sidered promise  to  leave  her  free  to  act  as  she  pleased,  had  suggested 
the  conclusion  either  that  she  was  naturally  flighty  and  unsettled,  or 
that  some  recent  shock  of  terror  had  disturbed  the  balance  of  her 
faculties.  But  the  idea  of  absolute  insanity  which  we  all  associate 
with  the  very  name  of  an  Asylum,  had,  I  can  honestly  declare,  never 
occurred  to  me,  in  connection  with  her,  I  had  seen  nothing,  in  her 
language  or  her  actions,  to  justify  it  at  the  time ;  and,  even  with  the 
new  light  thrown  on  her  by  the  words  which  the  stranger  had  ad- 
dressed to  the  policeman,  I  could  see  nothing  to  justify  it  now. 

What  had  I  done  ?  Assisted  the  victim  of  the  most  horrible  of  all 
false  imprisonments  to  escape;  or  cast  loose  on  the  wide  world  of 
London  an  unfortunate  creature,  whose  actions  it  was  my  duty,  and 
every  man's  duty,  mercifully  to  control  ?  I  turned  sick  at  heart  when 
the  question  occurred  to  me,  and  when  I  felt  self-reproachfully  that  it 
was  asked  too  late. 

In  the  disturbed  state  of  my  mind,  it  was  useless  to  think  of  going 
to  bed,  when  I  at  last  got  back  to  my  chambers  in  Clement's  Inn. 
Before  many  hours  elapsed  it  would  be  necessary  to  start  on  my  jour- 
ney to  Cumberland.  I  sat  down  and  tried,  first  to  sketch,  then  to 
read — but  the  woman  in  white  got  between  me  and  my  pencil,  be- 
tween me  and  my  book.  Had  the  forlorn  creature  come  to  any 
harm  ?  That  was  my  first  thought,  though  I  shrank  selfishly  from 
confronting  it.     Other  thoughts  followed,  on  which  it  was  less  har- 


30  THE   WOMAN   IN    WHITE. 

rowiTii;^  to  dwell.  AVliore  had  slie  stopped  the  cab  ?  What  had  be 
come  of  her  now  ?  Had  she  been  traced  and  captured  by  the  men 
in  the  chaise?  Or  was  she  still  capable  of  controlling  lier  own  ac- 
tions? and  were  Ave  two  following  our  widely-parted  roads  toward 
one  point  in  the  mysterious  future,  at  which  we  were  to  meet  once 
more  ? 

It  was  a  relief  when  the  hour  came  to  lock  my  door,  to  ])id  fare- 
well to  London  pursuits,  London  pupils,  and  London  friends,  and  to 
be  in  movement  again  toward  new  interests  and  a  new  life.  Even 
tlic  bustle  and  confusion  at  the  railway  terminus,  so  wearisome  ana 
bewildering  at  other  times,  roused  me  and  did  me  good. 

My  traveling  instructions  directed  me  to  go  to  Carlisle,  and  then  to 
diverge  by  a  branch  railway  which  ran  in  the  direction  of  the  coast. 
As  a  misfortune  to  begin  with,  our  engine  broke  down  between  Lan- 
caster and  Carlisle.  The  delay  occasioned  by  tliis  accident  caused 
me  to  be  too  late  for  the  branch  train,  by  which  I  was  to  have  gone 
on  immediately.  I  had  to  wait  some  hours ;  and  Avhen  a  later  train 
finally  deposited  me  at  the  nearest  station  to  Limmeridge  House,  it 
was  past  ten,  and  the  night  was  so  dark  that  I  could  hardly  see  my 
way  to  the  pony-chaise  which  Mr.  Fairlie  liad  ordered  to  be  in  wait- 
ing for  me. 

The  driver  was  evidently  discomposed  by  the  lateness  of  my  ar- 
rival. He  w^as  in  that  state  of  highly-respectful  sulkiness  which  is 
peculiar  to  English  servants.  We  drove  away  slowly  through  the 
darkness  in  perfect  silence.  The  roads  were  bad,  and  the  dense  ob- 
scurity of  the  night  increased  the  difficulty  of  getting  over  the  ground 
quickly.  It  was,  by  my  watch,  nearly  an  hour  and  a  half  from  the 
time  of  our  leaving  the  station  before  I  heard  the  sound  of  the  sea  in 
the  distance,  and  the  crunch  of  our  wheels  on  a  smooth  gravel  drive. 
We  had  jDassed  one  gate  before  entering  the  drive,  and  we  passed 
another  before  we  drew  up  at  the  house.  I  was  received  by  a  solemn 
man-servant  out  of  livery,  was  informed  that  the  family  had  retired 
for  the  night,  and  was  then  led  into  a  large  and  lofty  room  where  my 
supper  was  awaiting  me,  in  a  forlorn  manner,  at  one  extremity  of  a 
lonesome  mahogany  wilderness  of  dining-table. 

I  was  too  tired  and  out  of  spirits  to  eat  or  drink  much,  especially 
with  the  solemn  servant  waiting  on  me  as  elaborately  as  if  a  small 
dinner-party  had  arrived  at  the  house  instead  of  a  solitary  man.  In 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  I  was  ready  to  be  taken  up  to  my  bed-chamber. 
The  solemn  servant  conducted  me  into  a  prettily  furnished  room — 
said,  "  Breakfast  at  nine  o'clock,  sir  ■' — looked  all  round  him  to  see 
that  every  thing  was  in  its  proper  place — and  noiselessly  withdrew. 

"What  shall  I  see  in  my  dreams  to-night?'*  I  thought  to  myself,  as 
I  put  out  the  candle;  "the  woman  in  white?  or  the  unknown  in- 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  31 

haoitants  of  this  Cumberland  mansion  ?"  It  was  a  strange  sensation 
to  be  sleeping  in  the  house,  like  a  friend  of  the  family,  and  j'et  not  to 
know  one  of  the  inmates,  even  by  sight  I 

VL 

When  I  rose  the  next  morning  and  drew  up  my  blind,  the  sea 
opened  before  me  joyously  under  the  broad  August  sunlight,  and  the 
distant  coast  of  Scotland  fringed  the  horizon  with  its  lines  of  melt- 
ing blue. 

The  view  was  such  a  surprise,  and  such  a  change  to  me,  after  my 
weary  London  experience  of  brick-and-mortar  landscape,  that  I  seemed 
to  bui*st  into  a  new  life  and  a  new  set  of  thoughts  the  moment  I  looked 
at  it.  A  confused  sensation  of  having  suddenly  lost  my  familiarity 
with  the  past,  without  acquiring  any  additional  clearness  of  idea  in 
reference  to  the  present  or  the  future,  took  possession  of  my  mind. 
Circumstances  that  were  but  a  few  days  old,  faded  back  in  my  mem- 
ory, as  if  they  had  happened  months  and  months  since,  Pesca's 
quaint  announcement  of  the  means  by  which  he  had  procured  me  my 
present  employment;  the  farewell  evening  I  had  passed  with  my 
mother  and  sister ;  even  my  mysterious  adventure  on  the  way  home 
fi-om  Hampstead — had  all  become  like  events  which  might  have  oc- 
curred at  some  former  epoch  of  my  existence.  xVlthough  the  woman 
in  white  was  still  in  my  mind,  the  image  of  her  seemed  to  have  grown 
dull  and  faint  already. 

A  little  before  nine  o'clock,  I  descended  to  the  ground-floor  of  the 
house.  The  solemn  man-servant  of  the  night  before  met  me  wander- 
ing among  the  passages,  and  compassionately  showed  me  the  way 
to  the  breakfast-room. 

My  first  glance  round  me,  as  the  man  opened  the  door,  disclosed  a 
well-furnished  breakfast-table,  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  long  room, 
with  many  windows  in  it.  I  looked  from  the  table  to  the  window 
farthest  from  me,  and  saw  a  lady  standing  at  it,  with  her  back  turned 
toward  me.  The  instant  my  eyes  rested  on  her,  I  was  struck  by  the 
rare  beauty  of  her  form,  and  by  the  unafltected  grace  of  her  attitude. 
Her  figm-e  was  tall,  yet  not  too  tall ;  comely  and  well-developed,  yet 
not  fat ;  her  head  set  on  her  shoulders  with  an  easy,  pliant  firamess ; 
her  waist,  perfection  in  the  eyes  of  a  man,  for  it  occupied  its  natural 
place,  it  filled  out  its  natural  circle,  it  was  visibly  and  delightfully 
undeformed  by  stays.  She  had  not  heard  my  entrance  into  the  room ; 
and  I  allowed  myself  the  luxury  of  admiring  her  for  a  few  moments, 
before  I  moved  one  of  the  chairs  near  me,  as  the  least  embarrassing 
means  of  attracting  her  attention.  She  turned  toward  me  immedi- 
ately. The  easy  elegance  of  every  movement  of  her  limbs  and  body 
as  soon  as  she  began  to  advance  from  the  far  end  of  the  room,  set  me 
in  a  flutter  of  ex2:)ectation  to  see  her  face  clearly.     She  left  the  win- 


32  THE    WOMAN    IX    AVUITE. 

(low — and  I  said  to  myself,  The  lady  is  dark.  She  moved  forward  a 
few  steps — and  I  said  to  myself,  The  lady  is  young.  She  approached 
nearer — and  I  sjiid  to  myself  (with  a  sense  of  surprise  which  word3 
fail  me  to  express).  The  lady  is  ugly  I 

Never  was  the  old  conventional  maxim,  that  Nature  can  not  err, 
more  flatly  contradicted — never  was  the  fair  promise  of  a  lovely  fig- 
ure more  strangely  and  startlingly  belied  by  the  face  and  head  that 
crowned  it.  The  lady's  complexion  was  almost  swarthy,  and  the 
dark  down  on  her  upper  lip  was  almost  a  mustache.  She  had  a 
large,  firm,  masculine  mouth  and  jaw ;  j>i'oniinent,  piercing,  resolute 
brown  eyes;  and  thick,  coal-black  hair,  growing  unusually  low  down 
on  her  forehead.  Her  expression^jright,  franl^,  and  intelligent — 
appeared,  w^hile  she  was  silent,  to  be  altogether  wanting  in  those 
feminine  attractions  of  gentleness  and  pliability,  without  which  the 
beauty  of  the  handsomest  woman  alive  is  beauty  incomplete.  To 
see  such  a  face  as  this  set  on  shoulders  that  a  sculptor  would  have 
longed  to  model — to  be  charmed  by  the  modest  graces  of  action 
through  which  the  symmetrical  limbs  betrayed  their  beauty  when 
they  moved,  and  then  to  be  almost  repelled  by  the  masculine  form 
and  masculine  look  of  the  features  in  which  the  perfectly  shaped 
figure  ended — was  to  feel  a  sensation  oddly  akin  to  the  helpless  dis- 
comfort familiar  to  us  all  in  sleep,  when  we  recognize  yet  can  not 
reconcile  the  anomalies  and  contradictions  of  a  dream. 

"  Mr.  Hartright  ?"  said  the  lady,  interrogatively ;  her  dark  face 
lighting  up  with  a  smile,  and  softening  and  growing  womanly  the 
moment  she  began  to  speak.  "  We  resigned  all  hope  of  you  last 
night,  and  went  to  bed  as  usual.  Accept  my  apologies  for  our  ap- 
parent want  of  attention ;  and  allow  me  to  introduce  myself  as  one 
of  your  pupils.  Shall  we  shake  hands  ?  I  suppose  we  must  come 
to  it  sooner  or  later — and  why  not  sooner?'' 

These  odd  words  of  welcome  were  spoken  in  a  clear,  ringing,  pleas- 
ant voice.  The  offered  hand — rather  large,  but  beautifully  formed — 
was  given  to  me  with  the  easy,  unaffected  self-reliance  of  a  highly- 
bred  _woman.  We  sat  do wn~  together  at  the  breakfast-table  in  as 
cordial  and  customary  a  manner  as  if  we  had  known  each  other  for 
years,  and  had  met  at  Limmeridge  House  to  talk  over  old  times  by 
previous  appointment. 

"  I  hope  you  come  here  good-humored ly  determined  to  make  the 
])est  of  your  position,"  continued  the  lady.  "  You  will  have  to  be- 
gin this  morning  l)y  putting  up  with  no  other  company  at  breakfast 
than  mine.  My  sister  is  in  her  own  room,  nursing  that  essentially 
feminine  malady,  a  slight  headache ;  and  her  old  governess,  Mrs. 
Vesey,  is  charitably  attending  on  her  with  restorative  tea.  !My  un- 
cle, Mr.  Fairlie,  never  joins  us  at  any  of  our  meals:  he  is  an  invalid, 
an<l  keeps  bachelor  state  iu  his  own  apartments.     There  is  nobody 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  33 

else  in  tlie  liouse  but  me.     Two  young  ladies  have  been  staying  here, 
but  they  -went  away  yesterday,  in  despair;   and  no  wonder.     All 
through  their  visit  (in  consequence  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  invalid  condition) 
we  produced  no  such  convenience  in  the  house  as  a  flirtable,  dance- 
able,  small-talkable  creature  of  the  male  sex ;  and  the  consequence 
was,  we  did  nothing  but  quarrel,  especially  at  dinner-time.     How 
can  you  expect  four  women  to  dine  together  alone  every  day,  and 
not  quarrel  ?     We  are  such  fools,  "we  can't  entertain  each  other  at  ta- 
ble.    You  see  I  don't  think  much  of  my  own  sex,  Mr.  Hartright — 
which  will  you  have,  tea  or  coffee  ? — no  woman  does  think  much  of 
her  own  sex,  although  few  of  them  confess  it  as  freely  as  I  do.     Dear 
me,  you  look  puzzled.     Why  ?     x\re  you  wondering  what  you  wil' 
have  for  breakfast?  or  are  you  surprised  at  m}" careless  way  of  + 
ing  ?     In  the  first  case,  I  advise  you,  as  a  friend,  to  have  no' 
do  with  that  cold  ham  at  your  elbow,  and  to  wait  till  t^ 
comes  in.     In  the  second  case.  I  will  give  you  soniie  U 
your  spirits,  and  do  all  a  woman  can  (which  is  veryli 
to  hold  my  tongue." 

She  handed  me  my  cup  of  tea,  laughing  gayly. 
talk,  and  her  lively  familiarity  of  manner  with  a  to 
accompanied  by  an  unaffected  naturalness  and  an 
dence  in  hereelf  and  her  position,  which  would  ha.\ 
respect  of  the  most  audacious  man  breathing.     Wh 
sible  to  be  formal  and  reserved  in  her  company,  it 
impossible  to  take  the  faintest  vestige  of  a  liberty  w 
thought.     I  felt  this  instinctively,  even  while  I  caughi 
of  her  own  bright  gayety  of  spirits — even  while  I  dit 
answer  her  in  her  own  frank,  lively  way. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said,  when  I  had  suggested  the  only  expi, 
could  offer,  to  account  for  my  perplexed  looks,  "  I  understand, 
are  such  a  perfect  stranger  in  the  house,  that  you  are  puzzled  b\ 
familiar  references  to  the  worthy  inhabitants.  Natural  enough:  ^ 
ought  to  have  thought  of  it  before.  At  any  rate,  I  can  set  it  right 
now.  Suppose  I  begin  with  myself,  so  as  to  get  done  with  that  part 
of  the  subject  as  soon  as  possible  ?  My  name  is  Marian  HaIcon»-be; 
and  I  am  as  inaccurate  as  women  usually  are,  in  calling  ;Mr.  Fairlie 
my  uncle,  and  ]Miss  Fairlie  my  sister.  My  mother  was  twice  married : 
the  first  time  to  Mr.  Halcombe,  my  father ;  the  second  time  to  Mr. 
Fairlie,  my  half-sister's  father.  Except  that  we  are  both  oi-phans, 
we  are  in  every  respect  as  unlike  each  other  as  possible.  My  father 
was  a  poor  man,  and  Miss  Fairlie's  father  was  a  rich  man.  I  have 
got  nothing,  and  she  has  a  fortune.  I  am  dark  and  ugly,  and  she  is 
fair  and  pretty.  Every  body  thinks  me  crabbed  and  odd  (with  per- 
fect justice)  ;  and  every  body  thinks  her  sweet-tempered  and  charm- 
ing (with  more  justice  still).     In  short,  she  is  an  angel;  and  I  am^ 


34  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Try  some  of  that  marmalade,  Mr.  Hartright,  and  finish  the  sentence, 

in  the  name  of  female  propriety,  for  yourself     What  am  I  to  tell  you 

about  Mr.  Fairlie  ?     Upon  my  honor,  I  hardly  know.     lie  is  .sure  to 

send  for  you  after  breakfast,  and  you  can  study  him  for  yourself     In 

the  mean  time.  I  may  inform  you,  first,  that  he  is  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie's 

younger  brother;  secondly,  that  he  is  a  single  man;   and,  thirdly, 

that  he  is  Miss  Fairlie's  guardian.     I  won't  live  without  her,  and  she 

can't  live  without  me;  and  that  is  how  I  come  to  be  at  Limmeridge 

House.     My  sister  and  I  are  honestly  fond  of  each  other;  which,  you 

will  say,  is  ijjfsrt'ectly  unaccountable,  under  the  circumstances,  and  I 

quite  agree  with  y0n — but  so  it  is.     You  must  please  both  of  us, 

^Ir.  Hartright,  or  ])}easc  neither  of  us  :  and,  what  is  still  more  trjing, 

will  be  thrown  entirely  upon  our  society.     Mrs^^Vcsev  is  an  ex- 

^erson,  who  possesses  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  and  counts  for 

nd  Mj*.  Fairlie  is  too  great  an  invalid  to  be  a  companion 

I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him,  and  the 

'Ho^  what  is  the  matter  with  him,  and  he  doesn't 

•\t  is  the  matter  with  him.     We  all  say  it's  on  the 

One  of  us  know  what  we  mean  when  we  say  it. 

you  to  humor  his  little  peculiarities,  when  you  see 

lire  his  collection  of  coins,  prints,  and  water-color 

i  will  win  his  heart.     Upon  my  word,  if  you  can 

u  a  quiet  country  life,  I  don't  see  why  you  should 

well  here.     From  breakfast  to  lunch,  3Ir.  Fairlie's 

ccupy  you.     After  lunch.  Miss  Fairlie  and  I  shoulder 

As,  and  go  out  to  misrepresent  nature,  under  your  di- 

awing  is  ]ier  favorite  whim,  mind,  not  mine.     Women 

—their  minds  are  too  flighty,  and  their  eyes  are  too  inat- 

Jk>  matter — my  sister  likes  it :  so  I  waste  paint  and  spoil 

.or  lier  sake,  as  composedly  as  any  woman  in  England.     As. 

^e  evenings,  I  think  we  can  help  you  through  them.     Miss  Fair- 

,0- plays  <i(liohlfully.     For  my  own  poor  part,  I  don't  know"  one 

note  of  music  from  the  other;  but  I  can  match  you  at  chess,  back- 

ganMiion,  CcartC\  and  (with  the  inevitable  female  drawbacks)  even  at 

UUIi^jrils  as  well.     What  do  you  tliink  of  the  programme?     Can  you 

reconcile  yourself  to  our  quiet,  regular  life  ?  or  do  you  mean  to  be 

restless,  and  secretly  thirst  for  change  and  adventure,  in  the  hum- 

dnmi  atmosphere  of  Limmeridge  House?'' 

She  had  run  on  thus  far,  in  her  gracefully  bantering  way.  with  no 
other  intenr.|>:ions  on  my  part  than  the  unimportant  uplies  which 
politenesss  required  of  me.  The  turn  of  the  expression,  however,  in 
her  last  question,  or  rather  the  one  chance  word,  "  adventure,"  light- 
ly as  it  fell  from  her  lips,  recalled  my  thoughts  to  my  meeting  with 
the  woman  in  white,  and  urged  me  to  discover  the  connection  which 
the  stranger's  own  reference  to  Mrs.  Fairlie  informed  me  must  once 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  35 

have  existed  Ijetween  the  nameless  fugitive  from  the  Asylum,  and  the 
former  mistress  of  Limmeridge  House. 

"  Even  if  I  were  the  most  restless  of  mankind,"  I  said,  "  I  should 
be  in  no  danger  of  thirsting  after  adventures  for  some  time  to  come. 
The  very  night  before  I  arrived  at  this  house,  I  met  with  an  adven- 
ture ;  and  the  wonder  and  excitement  of  it,  I  can  assure  you,  Miss 
Halcombe,  will  last  me  for  the  whole  term  of  ray  stay  in  Cumber- 
land, if  not  for  a  much  longer  period."' 

"  You  don't  say  so,  Mr.  Hartright !     May  I  hear  it  V 

"  You  have  a  claim  to  hear  it.  The  chief  person  in  the  adventure 
was  a  total  stranger  to  me,  and  may  perhaps  be  a  total  stranger  to 
you ;  but  she  certainly  mentioned  the  name  of  the  late  jVIrs.  Fairlie 
in  terms  of  the  sincerest  gratitude  and  regard." 

'•  Mentioned  my  mother's  name  I  You  interest  me  indescribably. 
Pray  go  on.'' 

I  at  once  related  the  circumstances  under  which  I  had  met  the 
woman  in  white,  exactly  as  they  had  occurred ;  and  I  repeated  what 
she  had  said  to  me  about  Mrs.  Fairlie  and  Limnieridge  House,  word 
for  word. 

Miss  Halcomb's  bright  resolute  eyes  looked  eagerly  into  mine,  from 
the  beginning  of  the  narrative  to  the  end.  Her  face  expressed  vivid 
interest  and  astonishment,  but  nothing  more.  She  was  evidently  as 
far  from  knowing  of  any  clue  to  the  mystery  as  I  was  myself.      > 

"Are  you  quite  sure  of  those  words  referring  to  my  mother?"  she 
asked. 

"  Quite  sure,"  I  replied.  "  Whosoever  she  may  be,  the  woman  \^as 
once  at  school  in  the  village  of  Limmeridge,  was  treated  with  es- 
pecial kindness  by  Mrs.  Fairlie,  and,  in  grateful  remembrance  of  that 
kindness,  feels  an  affectionate  interest  in  all  suiTiving  members  of 
the  family.  She  knew  that  Mrs.  Fairlie  and  her  husband  were  both 
dead ;  and  she  spoke  of  Miss  Fairlie  as  if  they  had  known  each  other 
when  they  were  children." 

"  You  said,  I  think,  that  she  denied  belonging  to  this  place  ?" 

"  Yes,  she  told  me  she  came  from  Hampshire." 

"  And  you  entirely  failed  to  find  out  her  name  ?" 

"  Entirely." 

"Very  strange.  I  think  you  were  quite  justified,  Mr. Hartright,  in 
giving  the  poor  creature  her  liberty,  for  she  seems  to  have  done  noth- 
ing in  your  presence  to  show  herself  unfit  to  enjoy  it.  But  I  wish 
you  had  been  a  little  more  resolute  about  finding  out  her  name.  We 
must  really  clear  up  this  mystery,  in  some  way.  You  had  better  not 
speak  of  it  yet  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  or  to  my  sister.  They  are  both  of  them, 
I  am  certain,  quite  as  ignorant  of  who  the  woman  is,  and  of  what  her 
past  history  in  connection  with  us  can  be,  as  I  am  myself  But  they 
are  also,  in  widely  different  ways,  rather  nervous  and  sensitive ;  and 


36  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

you  would  only  lidcret  one  and  alarm  the  other  to  no  purpose.  As 
for  myself,  I  am  all  aflame  with  curiosity,  and  I  devote  my  whole  en- 
ergies to  the  lousiness  of  discovery  from  this  moment.  When  my 
mother  came  here,  after  her  second  marriage,  she  certainly  establish- 
ed the  village  school  just  as  it  exists  at  the  present  time.  But  the 
old  teachers  are  all  dead,  or  gone  elsewhere ;  and  no  enlightenment 
is  to  be  hoped  for  from  that  quarter.  The  only  other  alternative  I 
can  think  of — " 

At  this  point  we  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the  servant, 
with  a  message  from  Mr.  Fairlie,  intimating  that  he  would  be  glad  to 
see  me,  as  soon  as  I  had  done  breakfast. 

"Wait  in  the  hall,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  answering  the  servant  for 
me,  in  her  quick,  ready  way.  "  Mr.  Hartright  will  come  out  directly. 
I  was  about  to  say,"  she  went  on,  addressing  me  again,  "that  my  sis- 
ter and  I  have  a  large  collection  of  my  mother's  letters,  addressed  to 
my  father  and  to  hers.  In  the  absence  of  any  other  means  of  getting 
information,  I  will  pass  the  morning  in  looking  over  my  mother's 
correspondence  with  Mr.  Fairlie.  He  was  fond  of  London,  and  was 
constantly  away  from  his  country  home ;  and  she  was  accustomed, 
at  such  times,  to  write  and  report  to  him  how  things  went  on  at  Lim- 
meridge.  Her  letters  are  full  of  references  to  the  school  in  which 
she  took  so  strong  an  interest ;  and  I  think  it  more  than  likely  that  I 
may  have  discovered  something  when  we  meet  again.  The  luncheon 
hour  is  two.  Mr.  Hartright.  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing 
you  to  my  sister  by  that  time,  and  we  will  occupy  the  afternoon  in 
driving  round  the  neighborhood  and  showing  you  all  our  pet  points 
of  view.     Till  two  o'clock,  then,  farewell." 

She  nodded  to  me  with  the  lively  grace,  the  delightful  refinement 
of  familiarity,  wliich  characterized  all  that  she  did  and  all  that  she 
said;  and  disappeared  by  a  door  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room.  As 
soon  as  she  had  left  me,  I  turned  my  steps  toward  the  hall,  and  fol- 
lowed the  servant  on  my  way,  for  the  first  time,  to  the  presence  of 
Mr.  Fairiie. 

VH. 

My  conductor  led  me  up  stairs  into  a  passage  which  took  us  back 
to  the  bed-chamber  in, which  I  had  slept  during  the  past  night;  and 
opening  the  door  next  to  it,  begged  me  to  look  in. 

"  I  have  my  master's  ordei-s  to  show  you  your  own  sitting-room, 
sir,"  said  the  man,  "  and  to  inquire  if  you  approve  of  the  situation 
and  the  light." 

I  must  have  been  hard  to  please,  indeed,  if  I  had  not  approved  of 
the  room,  and  of  every  thing  about  it.  The  bow-window  looked  out 
on  the  same  lovely  view  which  I  had  admired,  in  the  morning,  from 
my  bedroom.     The  furniture  was  the  perfection  of  luxury  and  beau- 


THE    WOilAX    IX    WHITE.  37 

ty ;  the  table  in  the  centre  was  bright  with  gayly-boiind  books,  ele- 
gant conveniences  for  writing,  and  beautiful  flowers ;  the  second  ta- 
ble, near  the  window,  was  covered  with  all  the  necessary  materials 
for  mounting  water-color  drawings,  and  had  a  little  easel  attached  to 
it,  which  I  could  expand  or  fold  up  at  will ;  the  walls  were  hung 
with  gayly-tinted  chintz ;  and  the  floor  was  spread  with  Indian  mat- 
ting in  maize-color  and  red.  It  was  the  prettiest  and  most  luxurious 
little  sitting-room  I  had  ever  seen  ;  and  I  admired  it  with  the  warm- 
est enthusiasm. 

The  solemn  servant  was  far  too  highly  trained  to  betray  the  slight- 
est satisfaction.  He  bowed  with  icy  deference  when  my  terms  of  eu- 
logy were  all  exhausted,  and  silently  opened  the  door  for  me  to  go 
out  into  the  passage  again. 

We  turned  a  corner,  and  entered  a  long  second  passage,  ascended 
a  short  flight  of  stairs  at  the  end,  crossed  a  small  circular  upper  hall, 
and  stopped  in  front  of  a  door  covered  with  dark  baize.  The  servant 
opened  this  door,  and  led  me  on  a  few  yards  to  a  second ;  oi3ened 
that  also,  and  disclosed  two  curtains  of  pale  sea-green  silk  hanging 
before  us ;  raised  one  of  them  noiselessly ;  softly  uttered  the  words, 
"  Mr.  Hartright,"  and  left  me. 

I  found  myself  in  a  large,  lofty  room,  with  a  magnificent  carved 
ceiling,  and  with  a  carpet  over  the  floor,  so  thick  and  soft  that  it  felt 
like  piles  of  velvet  under  my  feet.  One  side  of  the  room  was  occu- 
pied by  a  long  book-case  of  some  rare  inlaid  wood  that  was  quite 
new  to  me.  It  was  not  more  than  six  feet  high,  and  the  top  was 
adorned  with  statuettes  in  marble,  ranged  at  regular  distances  one 
from  the  other.  On  the  opposite  side  stood  two  antique  cabinets;  and 
between  them,  and  above  them,  hung  a  picture  of  the  Virgin  and 
Child,  protected  by  glass,  and  bearing  Raphael's  name  on  the  gilt 
tablet  at  the  bottom  of  the  frame.  On  my  right  hand  and  on  my 
left,  as  I  stood  inside  the  door,  were  chiffoniers  and  little  stands  in 
buhl  and  marqueterie,  loaded  with  figures  in  Dresden  china,  with 
rare  vases,  ivory  ornaments,  and  toys  and  curiosities  that  sj)arkled  at 
all  points  with  gold,  silver,  and  precious  stones.  At  the  lower  end 
of  the  room,  opposite  to  me,  the  windows  were  concealed  and  the 
sunlight  was  tempered  by  large  blinds  of  the  same  pale  sea-green 
color  as  the  curtains  over  the  door.  The  light  thus  produced  was  de- 
liciously  soft,  mysterious,  and  subdued ;  it  fell  equally  upon  all  the 
objects  in  the  room ;  it  helped  to  intensify  the  deep  silence,  and  the 
air  of  profound  seclusion  that  possessed  the  place ;  and  it  surround- 
ed, with  an  appropriate  halo  of  rejjose,  the  solitary  figure  of  the  mas- 
ter of  tl>e  house,  leaning  back,  listlessly  composed,  in  a  large  easy- 
chair,  Avith  a  reading-easel  fiistened  on  one  of  its  arms,  and  a  little 
^^ble  on  the  other. 

If  a  man's  personal  appearance,  when  he  is  out  of  his  dressing- 


88  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

room,  and  wlicn  he  has  passed  forty,  can  be  accepted  as  a  safe  guiile 
to  his  time  of  life — wliich  is  more  than  doubtful — Mr.  Fairlie's  age, 
when  I  saw  him,  might  have  been  reasonal)!y  computed  at  over  fifty 
and  under  sixty  years.  His  beardless  face  was  thin,  worn,  and  trans- 
parently pale,  but  not  wrinkled ;  Ids  nose  was  high  and  hooked  ;  his 
eyes  were  of  a  dim  grayish  blue,  large,  prominent,  and  rather  red 
round  the  rims  of  the  eyelids ;  his  hair  was  scanty,  soft  to  look  at, 
and  of  that  light  sandy  color  wdiich  is  the  last  to  disclose  its  own 
changes  toward  gray.  He  was  dressed  in  a  dark  frock-coat,  of  some 
substance  mucli  thinner  than  clotli,  and  in  waistcoat  and  trowsers  of 
spotless  white.  His  feet  were  effeminately  small,  and  were  clad  in 
buff-colored  silk  stockings,  and  little  womanish  bronze-leather  slip- 
l)ers.  Two  rings  adorned  his  white  delicate  hands,  the  value  of 
which  even  my  inexperienced  observation  detected  to  be  all  Ijut 
priceless.  Upon  the  whole,  he  had  a  frail,  languidly -fretful^  over- 
relined  look — sometliing  singularly  and  unpleasantly  delicate  in  its 
Q;^  association  with  a  man,  and,  at  the  same  time,  something  which 
^  could  by  no  possibility  have  looked  natural  and  appropriate  if  it  had 
been  transferred  to  the  personal  appearance  of  a  woman.  My  morn- 
ing's experience  of  Miss  Halcombe  had  predisj^osed  me  to  be  pleased 
with  every  body  in  the  house;  but  my  sympathies  shut  themselves 
up  resolutely  at  the  first  sight  of  Mr.  Fairlie. 
r^^  On  approaching  nearer  to  hintrr  discovered  that  he  was  not  so  en- 
tirely without  occupation  as  I  had  at  first  supposed.  Placed  amidst 
the  other  rare  and  beautiful  objects  on  a  large  round  table  near  him, 
was  a  dwarf  cabinet  in  ebony  and  silver,  containing  coins  of  all 
sliapes  and  sizes,  set  out  in  little  drawers  lined  with  dark  purj^le  vel- 
vet. One  of  these  drawers  lay  on  the  small  table  attached  to  his 
chair;  and  near  it  were  some  tiny  jewelers'  brushes,  a  wash-leather 
"stump,''  and  a  little  bottle  of  liquid,  all  waiting  to  l)e  used  in  vari- 
ous ways  for  the  removal  of  any  accidental  impurities  which  might 
be  discovered  on  the  coins.  His  frail  white  fingers  were  listlessly 
toying  with  something  which  looked,  to  my  uninstructed  eyes,  like  a 
dirty  pewter  medal  with  ragged  edges,  when  I  advanced  within  a 
respectful  distance  of  his  chair,  and  stopped  to  make  my  bow. 

"  So  glad  to  possess  you  at  Limmeridge,  Mr.  Hartright,"  he  said, 
in  a  querulous,  croaking  voice,  which  combined,  in  any  thing  but 
an  agreeable  manner,  a  discordantly  high  tone  with  a  drowsily  lan- 
guid utterance.  ''  Pray  sit  down.  And  don't  trouble  yourself  to 
move  the  chair,  please.  In  the  wretched  state  of  my  nerves,  move- 
ment of  any  kind  is  exquisitely  painful  to  me.  Have  you  seen  your 
studio  ?     Will  it  do  ?"' 

"I  have  just  come  from  seeing  the  room,  Mr.  Fairlie  ;  and  I  assure 
you — " 

He  stopped  me  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence,  by  closing  his  eyes,  and 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  39 

holding  up  one  of  his  white  hands  imploringly.    I  paused  in  astonish- 
ment ;  and  the  croaking  voice  honored  me  with  this  explanation : 

"  Pray  excuse  me.  But  could  you  contrive  to  speak  in  a  lower  key  ? 
In  the  wretched  state  of  my  nerves,  loud  sound  of  any  kind  is  inde- 
scribable torture  to  me.  You  will  pardon  an  invalid  ?  I  only  say  to 
you  what  the  lamentable  state  of  my  health  obliges  me  to  say  to  ev- 
ery body.     Yes.     And  you  really  like  the  room  ?'' 

"  I  could  wish  for  nothing  prettier  and  nothing  more  comfortable,"' 
I  answered,  dropping  my  voice,  and  beginning  to  discover  already 
that  Mr.  Fairlie's  selfish  affectation  and  JSIr.  Fairlie's  wretched  nerves 
meant  one  and  the  same  thing. 

"  So  glad.  You  will  find  your  i)osition  here,  Mr.  Hartright,  prop- 
erly recognized.  There  is  none  of  the  horrid  English  Ixarbarity  of 
feeling  about  the  social  position  of  an  artist,  in  this  house.  So  much 
of  my  early  life  has  been  passed  abroad,  that  I  have  quite  cast  my 
insular  skin  in  that  respect.  I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  the  gen- 
try— detestable  word,  but  I  suppose  I  must  use  it — of  the  gentry  in 
the  neighborhood.  They  are  sad  Goths  in  Art,  Mr.  Hartright.  Peo- 
ple, I  do  assure  you,  who  would  have  opened  their  eyes  in  astonish- 
ment if  they  had  seen  Charles  the  Fifth  pick  up  Titian's  brush  for 
him.  Do  you  mind  putting  tliis  tray  of  coins  back  in  the  cabinet, 
and  giving  me  the  next  one  to  it  ?  In  the  wretched  state  of  my 
nerves,  exertion  of  any  kind  is  unspeakably  disagreeable  to  me.  Yes. 
Thank  you." 

As  a  practical  commentary  on  the  liberal  social  theory  which  he 
had  just  favored  me  by  illustrating,  Mr.  Fairlie's  cool  request  rather 
amused  me.  I  put  back  one  drawer  and  gave  him  the  other,  with 
all  possible  politeness.  He  began  trifling  with  the  new  set  of  coins 
and  the  little  brushes  immediately ;  languidly  looking  at  them  and 
admiring  them  all  the  time  he  was  speaking  to  me. 

"A  thousand  thanks  and  a  thousand  excuses.  Do  you  like  coins? 
Yes.  So  glad  we  have  another  taste  in  common  besides  our  taste 
for  Art.  Now,  about  the  pecuniary  arrangements  between  us — do 
tell  me — are  they  satisfactory  ?" 

"  Most  satisfactory,  Mr.  Fairlie." 

"  So  glad.  And — what  next  ?  Ah  !  I  remember.  Yes,  m  refer- 
ence to  the  consideration  which  you  are  good  enough  to  accept  for 
giving  me  the  benefit  of  your  accomplishments  in  art,  my  steward 
will  wait  on  you  at  the  end  of  the  first  week,  to  ascertain  your  wish- 
es. And — what  next  ?  Curious,  is  it  not  ?  I  had  a  great  deal  more 
to  say ;  and  I  appear  to  have  quite  forgotten  it.  Do  you  mind  touch- 
'  ing  the  bell  ?     In  that  corner.     Yes.     Thank  you." 

I  rang;  and  a  new  servant  noiselessly  made  his  appearance  —  a 
foreigner,  with  a  set  smile  and  perfectly  brushed  haii' — a  valet  eveiy ' 
inch  of  him. 


40  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

"Louis,"'  said  ]Mr.  Fiiirlie,  dreamily  dusting  the  tips  of  liis  lingere 
with  one  of  the  tiny  brashes  for  the  coins,  "I  made  some  entries  in 
my  tablettcs  this  morning.  Find  my  tablettes.  A  thousand  par- 
dons, Mr.  Hartright,  I'm  afraid  I  bore  you/' 

As  he  ^vearily  closed  his  eyes  again,  before  I  could  answer,  and  as 
he  did  most  assuredly  bore  me,  I  sat  silent,  and  looked  up  at  the 
Madonna  and  Child  by  Raphael.  In  the  mean  time,  the  valet  left 
the  room,  and  returned  shortly  with  a  little  ivory  book.  Mr.  Fairlie, 
after  first  relieving  himself  by  a  gentle  sigh,  let  the  book  drop  open 
v/ith  one  hand,  and  held  up  the  tiny  brush  with  the  other,  as  a  sign 
to  the  servant  to  wait  for  further  orders. 

"  Yes.  Just  so  !"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  consulting  the  tablettes.  "  Louis, 
take  down  that  port-folio."  He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  several  port- 
folios placed  near  the  window,  on  mahogany  stands.  "ISTo.  Not 
the  one  with  the  green  back — that  contains  my  Rembrandt  etchings, 
Mr.  Hartright.  Do  you  like  etchings?  Yes?  So  glad  we  have  an- 
other taste  in  common.  The  port-folio  with  the  red  back,  Louis. 
Don't  drop  it !  You  have  no  idea  of  the  tortures  I  should  suffer,  Mr. 
Hartright,  if  Louis  dropped  that  port-folio.  Is  it  safe  on  the  chair? 
Do  you  think  it  safe,  Mr.  Hartright?  Yes?  So  glad.  Will  you 
oblige  me  by  looking  at  the  drawings,  if  you  really  think  they  are 
quite  safe.  Louis,  go  away.  What  an  ass  you  are.  Don't  you  see 
me  holding  the  tablettes  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  w^ant  to  hold  them  ? 
Then  why  not  relieve  me  of  the  tablettes  without  being  told  ?  A 
thousand  pardons,  Mr.  Hartright ;  servants  are  such  asses,  are  they 
not?  Do  tell  me — what  do  you  think  of  the  drawings?  They  have 
come  from  a  sale  in  a  shocking  state — I  thought  they  smelled  of  hor- 
rid dealers'  and  brokers'  fingers  when  I  looked  at  them  last.  Can 
you  undertake  them  ?" 

Although  my  nerves  were  not  delicate  enough  to  detect  the  odor 
of  plebeian  fingers  which  had  ofiended  Mr.  Fairlie's  nostrils,  my  taste 
was  sufficiently  educated  to  enable  me  to  appreciate  the  value  of  the 
drawings,  while  I  turned  them  over.  They  were,  for  the  most  part, 
really  fine  specimens  of  English  water-color  Art ;  and  they  had  de- 
served much  better  treatment  at  the  hands  of  their  former  possessor 
than  they  appeared  to  have  received. 

"  The  drawings,"  I  answered,  "  require  careful  straining  and  mount- 
ing; and,  in  my  opinion,  they  are  well  worth — '' 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  interjjoscd  Mr.  Fairlie.  "  Do  you  mind  my 
closing  my  eyes  while  you  speak  ?  Even  this  light  is  too  much  for 
them.     Yes  ?" 

"  I  was  about  to  say  that  the  drawings  are  well  worth  all  the  time 
and  trouble — '' 

Mr.  Fairlie  suddenly  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  rolled  them  with 
an  expression  of  helpless  alarm  in  the  direction  of  the  window. 


A 


THE    AVOMAN   IN    WHITE.  41 

"  I  entreat  you  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Hartriglit,"  lie  said,  in  a  feeble 
flutter.  "  But  surely  I  hear  some  horrid  children  in  tlie  garden— > 
my  private  garden — below  ?'' 

"I  can't  say,  Mr.  Fairlie.     I  heard  nothing  myself." 

"  Oblige  me — you  have  been  so  very  good  in  humoring  my  poor 
nerves — oblige  me  by  lifting  up  a  corner  of  the  blind.  Don't  let  the 
sun  in  on  me,  Mr.  Hartriglit  !  Have  you  got  the  blind  up  ?  Yes  ? 
Then  will  you  be  so  veiy  kind  as  to  look  into  the  garden  and  make 
quite  sure  ?*' 

I  complied  with  this  new  request.  The  garden  was  carefully 
walled  in,  all  round.    Not  a  human  creature,  large  or  small,  appeared  ' 

in  any  part  of  the  sacred  seclusion.     I  reported  that  gratifying  fact>\\ --J 
to  Mr.  Fairlie.  W 

'•A  thousand  thanks.     My  fancy,  I  suppose.     There  are  no  chil-     V 
dren,  thank  Heaven,  in  the  house ;  but  the  servants  (persons  born  W 
without  nerves)  will  encourage  the  children  from  the  village.     Sucliii  A 
brats— oh,  dear  me,  such  brats  !     Shall  I  confess  it,  Mr.  Hartright  ?-^    ^ 
I  sadly  want  a  reform  in  the  construction  of  children.     Nature's  onlyV' 
idea  seems  to  be  to  make  them  machines  for  the  production  of  inces- 
sant noise.     Surely  our  delightful  Raftaello's  concej^tion  is  infinitely 
preferable  ?" 

He  pointed  to  the  picture  of  the  Madonna,  the  upper  part  of  which 
represented  the  conventional  cherubs  of  Italian  Art,  celestially  pro- 
vided with  sitting  accommodation  for  their  chins,  on  balloons  of 
buff-colored  cloud. 

''  Quite  a  model  family !"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  leering  at  the  cherubs. 
'•  Such  nice  round  faces,  and  such  nice  soft  wings,  and — nothing  else. 
No  dh'ty  little  legs  to  run  about  on,  and  no  noisy  little  lungs  to 
scream  with.  How  immeasurably  superior  to  the  existing  construc- 
tion I  I  will  close  my  eyes  again,  if  you  will  allow  me.  And  you 
really  can  manage  the  drawings  ?  So  glad.  Is  there  any  thing  else 
to  settle  ?  if  there  is,  I  think  I  have  forgotten  it.  Shall  we  ring  for 
Louis  again  V 

Being,  by  this  time,  quite  as  anxious  on  my  side  as  Mr.  Fairlie  ev- 
idently was  on  his,  to  bring  the  interview  to  a  speedy  conclusion,  I 
thought  I  would  try  to  render  the  summoning  of  the  servant  unnec- 
essary, by  offering  the  requisite  suggestion  on  my  own  responsibility. 

"  The  only  point,  Mr.  Fairlie,  that  remains  to  be  discussed,"  I  said, 
"refers,  I  think,  to  the  instruction  in  sketching  .which  I  am  engaged 
to  communicate  to  the  two  young  ladies." 

"Ahl  just  so,"  said  Mr.  Fairlie.  ''I  wish  I  felt  strong  enough  to 
go  into  that  part  of  the  arrangement — but  I  don't.  The  ladies,  who 
profit  by  your  kind  services,  Mr.  Hartright,  must  settle,  and  decide, 
and  so  on,  for  themselves.  My  niece  is  fond  of  your  charming  art. 
She  knows  just  enough  about  it  to  be  conscious  of  her  own  sad  de- 


42  THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITE. 

fects.  Please  take  pains  with  licr.  Yes.  Is  tliere  any  thing  CISC'? 
No.  "VVc  quite  understand  each  other — don't  we  ?  I  have  no  right 
to  detain  you  any  lon^-er  from  your  delightful  jDursuit — have  I  ?  So 
pleasant  to  have  settled  every  thing — such  a  sensible  relief  to  have 
done  business.  Do  you  mind  ringing  for  Louis  to  carry  the  port- 
folio to  your  own  room  V 

''  I  will  carry  it  there  myself,  Mr.  Fairlie,  if  you  will  allow  me." 
"  Will  you  really  ?  Are  you  strong  enough  ?  How  nice  to  be  so 
strong  !  Are  you  sure  you  won't  droi^  it  ?  So  glad  to  possess  you 
at  Limmeridge,  Mr.  Hartright.  I  am  such  a  sufferer  that  I  hardly 
dare  liope  to  enjoy  much  of  your  society.  Would  you  mind  taking 
great  pains  not  to  let  the  doors  bang,  and  not  to  drop  the  port-folio? 
Thank  you.  Gently  with  the  curtains,  please — the  slightest  noise 
from  them  goes  through  me  like  a  knife.     Yes.     Good-monung !" 

When  the  sea-green  curtains  were  closed,  and  when  the  two  baize 
doors  were  shut  behind  me,  I  stopped  for  a  moment  in  the  little  cir- 
cular hall  beyond,  and  drew  a  long,  luxurious  breath  of  relief  It 
vvas  like  coming  to  the  surface  of  the  water  after  deep  diving,  to 
find  myself  once  more  on  the  outside  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  room. 

As  soon  as  I  was  comfortably  established  for  the  morning  in  my 
pretty  little  studio,  the  first  resolution  at  which  I  arrived  was  to  turn 
my  steps  no  more  in  the  direction  of  the  apartments  occupied  by  the 
master  of  the  house,  excejDt  in  the  very  improbable  event  of  his  hon- 
oring me  with  a  special  invitation  to  i)ay  him  another  visit.  Hav- 
ing settled  this  satisfactory  plan  of  future  conduct,  in  reference  to 
]\Ir.  Fairlie,  I  soon  recovered  the  serenity  of  temper  of  which  my 
employer's  haughty  f\imiliarity  and  impudent  jDoliteness  had,  for  the 
moment,  deprived  me.  The  remaining  hours  of  the  morning  passed 
away  pleasantly  enough,  in  looking  over  the  drawings,  arranging 
them  in  sets,  trimming  their  ragged  edges,  and  accomplishing  the 
other  necessary  preparations  in  anticipation  of  the  business  of  mount- 
ing them.  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  have  made  more  progress  than  this ; 
but,  as  the  luncheon-time  drew  near,  I  grew  restless  and  unsettled, 
and  felt  unable  to  fix  my  attention  on  work,  even  though  that  work 
was  only  of  the  humble  manual  kind. 

At  two  o'clock,  I  descended  again  to  the  breakfast-room,  a  little 
anxiously.  Expectations  of  some  interest  were  connected  with  my 
approaching  re-appearance  in  that  part  of  the  house.  My  introduc- 
tion to  Miss  Fairlie  was  now  close  at  hand;  and, if  Miss  Halcombe's 
search  through  her  mother's  letters  had  produced  the  result  which 
she  anticii)ated,  the  time  had  come  for  clearing  up  the  mystery  of 
the  woman  in  white. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  43 

vni. 

When  I  entered  the  room,  I  found  Miss  Halcombe  and  an  elderly 
lady  seated  at  the  luncheon-table. 

The  elderly  lady,  when  1  was  presented  to  her,  proved  to  be  Mhs 
Fairlie's  former  governess,  3irs.  Vesey,  who  had  been  briefly  desciibcd 
to  me  by  my  lively  companion  at  the  breakfast-table,  as  possessed  of 
"  all  the  cardinal  virtues,  and  counting  for  nothing."  I  can  do  little 
more  than  offer  my  humble  testimony  to  the  truthfulness  of  Miss 
Halcombe's  sketch  of  the  old  lady's  character.  Mrs.  Vesey  looked 
the  personification  of  human  composure  and  female  amiability.  A 
calm  enjoyment  of  a  calm  existence  beamed  in  drowsy  smiles  on  her 
plump,  placid  face.  Some  of  us  rush  through  life,  and  some  of  us 
saunter  through  life.  Mrs.  Yesey  sat  through  life.  Sat  in  the  house, 
early  and  late ;  sat  in  the  garden ;  sat  in  unexpected  window-seats 
in  passages ;  sat  (on  a  camp-stool)  when  her  friends  tried  to  take  her 
out  walking ;  sat  before  she  looked  at  any  thing,  before  she  talked  of 
any  thing,  before  she  answered  Yes.  or  No,  to  the  commonest  question 
— always  with  the  same  serene  smile  on  her  lips,  the  same  vacantly 
attentive  turn  of  her  head,  the  same  snugly  comfortable  position  of 
her  hands  and  arms,  under  every  possible  change  of  domestic  cir- 
cumstances. A  mild,  a  comiDliant,  an  unutterably  tranquil  and  harm- 
less old  lady,  who  never  by  any  chance  suggested  the  idea  that  she 
had  been  actually  alive  since  the  hour  of  her  birth.  Xature  has  so 
much  to  do  in  this  world,  and  is  engaged  in  generating  such  a  vast 
variety  of  co-existent  productions,  that  she  must  surely  be  now  and 
then  too  flurried  and  confused  to  distinguish  between  the  difi"erent 
processes  that  she  is  carrying  on  at  the  same  time.  Starting  fiom 
this  point  of  view,  it  will  always  remain  my  private  persuasion  that 
Nature  was  absorbed  in  making  cabbages  when  Mrs.  Yesey  was  bom, 
and  that  the  good  lady  suftered  the  consequences  of  a  vegetable  pre- 
occupation in  the  mind  of  the  Mother  of  us  all. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Yesey,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  looking  brighter,  sharper, 
and  readier  than  ever,  by  contrast  with  the  undemonstrative  old  lady 
at  her  side,  "  what  will  you  have  ?     A  cutlet  ?"' 

Mrs.  Yesey  crossed  her  dimpled  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  table  ; 
smiled  placidly  ;  and  said,  "Yes,  dear." 

'•  What  is  that  oj^posite  ]\Ir.  Hartright  ?  Boiled  chicken,  is  it  not  ? 
I  thought  you  liked  boiled  chicken  better  than  cutlet,  Mrs.  Yesey  V 

Mrs.  Yesey  took  her  dimpled  hands  oft'  the  edge  of  the  table  and 
crossed  them  on  her  lap  instead;  nodded  contemplatively  at  the 
boiled  chicken,  and  said,  "  Yes,  dear." 

"  Well,  but  which  will  you  have  to-day  ?  Shall  Mr.  Hartright  give 
you  some  chicken  ?  or  shall  I  give  you  some  cutlet  ?" 

Jtfrs.  Yesey  put  one  of  her  dimpled  hands  back  again  on  the 


44  THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

edge  of  the  tublc ;  licsitatcd  drowsily  ;  and  said,  "Which  you  please, 
dear." 

"  Mercy  on  me !  it's  a  question  for  your  taste,  my  good  lady,  not  for 
mine.  Suppose  you  have  a  little  of  both?  and  suppose  you  begin 
with  the  chicken,  because  Mr.  Ilartright  looks  devoured  l^y  anxiety 
to  carve  for  you." 

Mrs.  Vesey  put  the  other  dimpled  hand  back  on  the  edge  of  the  ta- 
ble, brightened  dimly,  one  moment ;  went  out  again,  the  next ;  bow- 
ed obediently ;  and  said, "  If  you  please,  sir." 

Surely  a  mild,  a  compliant,  an  unutterably  tranquil  and  harmless 
old  lady  ?     But  enough,  perhajis,  for  the  present,  of  Mrs.  Vesey. 

All  this  time,  there  were  no  signs  of  Miss  Fairlie.  We  finished  our 
luncheon ;  and  still  she  never  appeared.  Miss  Halcombe,  whose  quick 
eye  nothing  escaped,  noticed  the  looks  that  I  cast,  from  time  to  time, 
in  the  direction  of  the  door. 

"  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said ;  "  you  are  wondering 
what  has  become  of  your  other  pupil.  She  has  been  down  stairs, 
and  has  got  over  her  headache ;  but  has  not  sufficiently  recovered 
her  appetite  to  join  us  at  lunch.  If  you  will  put  yourself  under  my 
charge,  I  think  I  can  undertake  to  find  her  somewhere  in  the  garden." 

She  took  up  a  parasol,  lying  on  a  chair  near  her,  and  led  the  way 
out,  by  a  long  window  at  the  bottom  of  the  room,  which  opened  on 
to  the  lawn.  It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  say  that  we  left  Mrs.  Vesey 
still  seated  at  the  table,  with  her  dimpled  hands  still  crossed  on  the 
edge  of  it ;  apparently  settled  in  that  position  for  the  rest  of  the  af- 
ternoon. 

As  we  crossed  the  lawn.  Miss  Halcombe  looked  at  me  significant- 
ly, and  shook  her  head. 

"That  mysterious  adventure  of  yours,"  she  said,  "  still  remains  in- 
volved in  its  own  appropriate  midnight  darkness.  I  have  been  all 
the  morning  looking  over  my  mother's  letters,  and  I  have  made  no 
discoveries  yet.  However,  don't  despair,  Mr.  Hartright.  This  is  a 
matter  of  curiosity ;  and  you  have  got  a  woman  for  your  ally.  Un- 
der such  conditions  success  is  certain,  sooner  or  later.  The  letters 
are  not  exhausted.  I  have  three  packets  still  left,  and  you  may  con- 
fidently rely  on  my  spending  the  whole  evening  over  them." 

Here,  then,  was  one  of  my  anticipations  of  the  morning  still  unful- 
filled. I  began  to  wonder,  next,  whether  my  introduction  to  Miss 
Fairlie  would  disappoint  the  expectations  that  I  had  been  forming 
of  her  since  breakfiist-time. 

"And  how  did  you  get  on  with  Mr. Fairlie?"  inquired  Miss  Hal- 
combe, as  we  left  the  lawn  and  turned  into  a  shrubbery.  ''Was  he 
particularly  nervous  this  morning?  Never  mind  considering  about 
your  answer,  Mr.  Ilartriglit.     The  mere  fact  of  your  being  obliged  to 


btl^l^ 


SHE    AVAS   STANDING   NEAR   A   RUSTIC   TAELS. 


TUE    AVOMAX   IN    WHITE. 

consider  is  enough  for  me.  I  see  in  your  face  that  he  uas  particular- 
ly nervous ;  and,  as  I  am  amiably  unwilling  to  throvr  you  into  the 
SHine  condition,  I  ask  no  more."' 

(^We  turned  off  into  a  winding  path  while  she  was  speaking,  and 
apjDroached  a  pretty  summer-house,  built  of  wood,  in  the  form  of  a 
miniature  Swiss  chalet.  The  one  room  of  the  summer-house,  as  wc 
ascended  the  steps  of  the  door,  was  occujjied  by  a  young  lady.  She 
was  standing  near  a  ruj  tic  table,  looking  out  at  the  inland  view  of 
moor  and  hill  presented  by  a  gap  in  the  trees,  and  alosently  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  a  little  sketch-book  that  lay  at  her  side.  This  was 
Miss  Fairlie.  " 

How  can  I  descrilje  her  ?  How  can  I  separate  her  from  my  own 
sensations,  and  from  all  that  has  happened  in  the  later  time  ?  How 
can  I  see  her  again  as  she  looked  when  my  eyes  first  rested  on  her — 
as  she  should  look,  now,  to  the  eyes  that  arc  about  to  see  her  in  these 
pages  ? 

The  water-color  drawing  that  I  made  of  Laura  Fairlie,  at  an  after 
period,  in  the  place  and  attitude  in  which  I  first  saw  her,  lies  on  my 
desk  while  I  write.  I  look  at  it.  and  there  dawns  upon  me  brighth', 
from  the  dark  greenish-brown  background  of  the  summer-house,  a 
light,  youthful  figure,  clothed  in  a  simple  muslin  dress,  the  pattern 
of  it  fonned  by  broad  alternate  stripes  of  delicate  blue  and  white. 
A  scarf  of  the  same  material  sits  crisply  and  closely  round  her  shouh 
ders,  and  a  little  straw  hat  of  the  natural  color,  plainly  and  spar- 
ingly trimmed  with  ribbon  to  match  the  gown,  covers  her  head, 
and  throws  its  soft  pearly  shadow  over  the  ujDpcr  part  of  her  face. 
Her  hair  is  of  so  faint  and  pale  a  brown — not  flaxen,  and  yet  almost 
as  light;  not  golden,  and  yet  almost  as  glossy — that  it  nearly  melts, 
here  and  there,  into  the  shadow  of  the  hat.  It  is  plainly  parted  and 
drawn  back  over  her  ears,  and  the  line  of  it  ripples  naturally  as  it 
crosses  her  forehead.  The  eyebrows  are  rather  darker  than  the  hair; 
and  the  eyes  are  of  that  soft,  limf)id,  turquoise  blue,  so  often  sung  by 
the  jDoets,  so  seldom  seen  in  real  life,  ^ovel}^  eyes  in  color,  lovely 
eyes  in  foiTQ— large  and  tender  and  quietly  thoughtful — but  beauti- 
ful above  all  things  in  the  clear  truthfulness  of  look  that  dwells  in 
their  inmost  depths,  and  shines  through  all  their  changes  of  expres- 
sion with  tile  light  of  a  purer  and  a  better  world.  The  chaim — most 
gently  and  yet  most  distinctly  expressed — which  they  shed  over  the 
whole  face,  so  covers  and  transforms  its  little  natural  human  blemish- 
es rlsewhere,  that  it  is  difiieult  to  estimate  the  relative  merits  and 
defects  of  the  other  features.  It  is  hard  to  see  that  the  lower  part 
of  the  face  is  too  delicately  refined  away  toward  the  chin  to  be  in  full 
and  fair  proportion  with  the  upper  part;  that  the  nose,  in  escaping 
the  aquiline  bend  (always  hard  and  cruel  in  a  woman,  no  matter  how 
abstractedly  perfect  it  may  be),  has  erred  a  little  in  the  other  extreme, 


THE    WOMAN    IX  WHITE. 

and  has  missed  the  ideal  straightness  of  line ;  and  that  the  sweet, 
sensitive  lips  are  subject  to  a  slij^ht  nervous  contraction,  when  she 
smiles,  which  draws  them  upward  a  little  at  one  corner,  toward  the 
cheek.  It  might  be  possible  to  note  these  blemishes  in  another  wom- 
an's face,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  dwell  on  them  in  hers,  so  subtly  arc 
they  connected  with  all  that  is  individual  and  characteristic  in  her 
expression,  and  so  closely  does  the  exi3ression  depend  for  its  full  play 
and  life,  in  every  other  feature,  on  the  moving  impulse  of  the  eyes. 

Does  my  poor  portrait  of  her,  my  fond,  patient  labor  of  long  and 
happy  days,  show  me  these  things  ?  Ah,  how  few^  of  them  are  in  the 
dim  mechanical  drawing,  and  how  many  in  the  mind  with  which  I 
regard  it  I  A  foir,  delicate  girl,  in  a  pretty  light  dress,  trifling  with 
the  leaves  of  a  sketch-book,  Avhile  she  looks  up  from  it  with  truth- 
ful, innocent  blue  eyes — that  is  all  the  drawing  can  say;  all,  per- 
haps, that  even  the  deeper  reach  of  thought  and  pen  can  say  in  their 
<linguage,  either.  The  woman  who  first  gives  life,  light,  and  form 
to  our  shadowy  conceptions  of  beauty,  fills  a  void  in  our  spiritual 
nature  that  has  remained  unknown  to  us  till  she  appeared.  Sympa- 
thies that  lie  too  deep  for  words,  too  deejD  almost  for  thoughts,  are 
touched,  at  such  times,  by  other  charms  than  those  which  the  senses 
feel  and  which  the  resources  of  expression  can  realize.  The  mystery 
which  underlies  the  beauty  of  women  is  never  raised  above  the  reach 
of  all  ex2:ression  until  it  has  claimed  kindred  with  the  deeper  mys- 
tery in  our  own  souls.  Then,  and  then  only,  has  it  passed  beyond 
the  narrow  region  on  which  light  falls,  in  this  world,  from  the  pen- 
cil and  the  pen. 

Think  of  her  as  you  thought  of  the  first  woman  who  quickened 
the  pulses  within  you  that  the  rest  of  her  sex  had  no  art  to  stir.  Let 
the  kind,  candid  blue  eyes  meet  yours,  as  they  met  mine,  with  the 
one  matchless  look  which  we  both  remember  so  well  Let  her  voice 
speak  the  music  that  you  once  loved  best,  attuned  as  sweetly  to  your 
car  as  to  mine.  Let  her  footstep,  as  she  comes  and  goes,  in  these 
pages,  be  like  that  other  footstep  to  whose  airy  fall  your  own  heart 
once  beat  time.  Take  her  as  the  visionaiy  nursling  of  your  own 
fancy ;  and  she  will  grow  upon  you,  all  the  more  clearly,  as  the  liv- 
ing woman  who  dwells  in  mine. 

Among  the  sensations  that  crowded  on  me,  when  my  eyes  first 
looked  upon  her — familiar  sensations  which  we  all  know,  which 
spring  to  life  in  most  of  our  hearts,  die  again  in  so  many,  and  re- 
new their  bright  existence  in  so  few — there  was  one  that  troubled 
and  perplexed  me ;  one  that  seemed  strangely  inconsistent  and  un- 
accountably out  of  place  in  3Iiss  Fairlie's  presence. 

Mingling  with  the  vivid  impression  produced  by  the  charm  of 
her  fiiir  face  and  head,  her  sweet  expression,  and  her  winning  sim- 
plicity of  manner,  was  another  impression,  which,  in  a  shadowy  way, 


THE    AVO.MAX    IX    WHITE. 

suggested  to  me  the  idea  of  something  wanting.     At 
seemed  like  something  wanting  in  her ;  at  another,  like  soi. 
Mr-anting  in  myself,  which  hindered  me  from  understanding  her  i. 
ought.     The  impression  was  always  strongest,  in  the  most  contra- 
dictory manner,  when  she  looked  at  me;  or  in  other  words,  when  I 
was  most  conscious  of  the  harmony  and  charm  of  her  face,  and  yet, 
at  the  same  time,  most  troubled  by  the  sense  of  an  incompleteness 
which  it  was  impossible  to  discover.     Something  wanting,  something- 
wanting — and  where  it  was,  and  what  it  was,  I  could  not  say. 

The  effect  of  this  curious  caprice  of  fancy  (as  I  thought  it  then) 
was  not  of  a  nature  to  set  me  at  my  ease,  during  a  first  interview  with 
Miss  Fairlie.  The  few  kind  words  of  welcome  which  she  spoke 
found  me  hardly  self-possessed  enough  to  thank  her  in  the  custom- 
ary phrases  of  ref)ly.  Observing  my  hesitation,  and  no  doubt  at- 
tributing it,  naturally  enough,  to  some  momentary  shyness  on  my 
part,  Miss  Halcombe  took  the  business  of  talking,  as  easily  and 
readily  as  usual,  into  her  own  hands, 

"  Look  there,  Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  sketch-book 
on  the  table,  and  to  the  little  delicate  wandering  hand  that  was  still 
tiTfling  with  it,  ''  Surely  you  will  acknowledge  that  your  model 
pupil  is  found  at  last  ?  The  moment  she  hears  that  you  are  in  the 
house,  she  seizes  her  inestimable  sketch-book,  looks  universal  Nature 
straight  in  the  face,  and  longs  to  begin  !" 

Miss  Fairlie  laughed  with  a  ready  good-humor,  which  broke  out 
as  brightly  as  if  it  had  been  part  of  the  sunshine  above  us,  over  her 
lovely  face. 

''  I  must  not  take  credit  to  myself  where  no  credit  is  due,"  she 
said,  her  clear,  truthful  blue  eyes  looking  alternately  at  Miss  Hal- 
combe and  at  me,  "  Fond  as  I  am  of  dra^Ning,  I  am  so  conscious 
of  my  own  ignorance  that  I  am  more  afraid  than  anxious  to  begin. 
Now  I  know  you  are  here,  Mr,  Hartright,  I  find  myself  looking  over 
my  sketches,  as  I  used  to  look  over  my  lessons  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,  and  when  I  was  sadly  afraid  that  I  should  turn  out  not  fit  to  be 
heard." 

She  made  the  confession  very  prettily  and  simj)ly,  and,  with  quaint, 
childish  earnestness,  drew  the  sketch-book  away  close  to  her  own  side 
of  the  table.  Miss  Halcombe  cut  the  knot  of  the  little  embarrass- 
ment forthwith,  in  her  resolute,  downright  way, 

"  Good,  bad,  or  indifferent,"  she  said,  "  the  pupil's  sketches  must 
pass  through  the  fiery  ordeal  of  the  masters  judgment — and  there's 
an  end  of  it.  Suppose  we  take  them  with  us  in  the  can-iage,  Laura, 
and  let  Mr,  Hartright  see  them,  for  the  fii'st  time,  under  circumstances 
of  perpetual  jolting  and  interruption?  If  we  can  only  confuse  him 
all  through  the  drive,  between  Nature  as  it  is,  when  he  looks  up  at 
the  view,  and  Nature  as. it  is  not,  when  he  looks  down  again  at  om* 

3 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

J,  we  shall  drive  liirn  into  the  last  desperate  refuge  of 
us  compliments,  and  shall  slip  through  his  professional  lin- 
.,  with  our  pet  feathers  of  vanity  all  unrutiled." 

"  I  hope  Mr.  Hartright  will  pay  me  no  compliments,"  said  Miss 
Fairlie,  as  we  all  left  the  summer-house. 

"  May  I  venture  to  inquire  why  you  express  that  hope?"  I  asked. 

'-  Because  I  shall  believe  all  that  you  say  to  me,"'  she  answered, 
siniply. 

In  those  few  words  she  unconsciously  gave  me  the  key  to  her 
whole  character;  to  that  generous  trust  in  others  which,  in  her  na- 
ture, grew  innocently  out  of  the  sense  of  her  own  truth.  I  only 
I  knew  it  intuitively  then.     I  know  it  by  experience  now. 

We  merely  waited  to  rouse  good  Mrs.  Vesey  from  the  place  which 
she  still  occupied  at  the  deserted  luncheon-table,  before  we  entered 
the  open  carriage  for  our  promised  drive.  The  old  lady  and  Miss 
Halcombe  occupied  the  back  seat;  and  Miss  Fairlie  and  I  sat  to- 
gether in  front,  with  the  sketch-book  open  between  us,  fairly  ex- 
hibited at  last  to  my  professional  eyes.  All  serious  criticism  on  the 
drawings,  even  if  I  had  been  disposed  to  volunteer  it,  was  rendered 
impossible  by  Miss  Halcombe's  lively  resolution  to  see  nothing  but 
the  ridiculous  side  of  the  Fine  Arts,  as  practiced  by  herself,  her  sister, 
and  ladies  in  general.  I  can  remember  the  conversation  that  passed 
far  more  easily  than  the  sketches  that  I  mechanically  looked  over. 
That  part  of  the  talk,  especially,  in  which  Miss  Fairlie  took  any 
share  is  still  as  vividly  impressed  on  ray  memory  as  if  I  had  heard 
it  only  a  few  hours  ago. 

Yes !  let  me  acknowledge  that,  on  this  first  day,  I  let  the  charm 
of  her  presence  lure  me  from  the  recollection  of  myself  and  my  posi- 
tion. The  most  trifling  of  the  questions  that  she  put  to  me,  on  the 
subject  of  using  her  pencil  and  mixing  her  colors ;  the  slightest  al- 
terations of  expressions  in  the  lovely  eyes  that  looked  into  mine,  with 
such  an  earnest  desire  to  learn  all  that  I  could  teach,  and  to  discover 
all  that  I  could  show,  attracted  more  of  my  attention  than  the  tinest 
view  we  passed  through,  or  the  grandest  changes  of  light  and  shade, 
as  they  flowed  into  each  other  over  the  waving  moor-land  and  the 
level  beach.  At  any  time,  and  under  any  circumstances  of  human 
interest,  is  it  not  strange  to  see  how  little  real  hold  the  objects  of 
the  natural  world  amidst  which  we  live  can  gain  on  our  hearts  and 
minds?  "VYe  go  to  Nature  for  comfort  in  trouble,  and  sympathy  in 
joy,  only  in  books.  Admiration  of  those  beauties  of  the  inanimate 
world,  which  modem  poetry  so  largely  and  so  eloquently  describes, 
is  not,  even  in  the  best  of  us.  one  of  the  original  instincts  of  our  na- 
ture. As  children,  we  none  of  us  possess  it.  No  uninstructcd  m;m  or 
woman  possesses  it.  Those  whose  lives  are  most  exclusively  passed 
amidst  the  tver-chan^infr  wonders  of  sea  and  laud  are  also  those 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  51 

who  are  most  -jniversally  insensible  to  eveiy  aspect  of  Nature  not 
directly  associated  with  the  human  interest  of  their  calling.  Our 
capacity  of  appreciating  the  beauties  of  the  earth  we  live  on  is,  in 
truth,  one  of  the  civilized  accomplishments  which  we  all  learn,  as  an 
Art ;  -and,  more,  that  very  capacity  is  rarely  practiced  by  any  of  us  ex- 
cept when  our  minds  are  most  indolent  and  most  unoccupied.  How 
much  share  have  the  attractions  of  Nature  ever  had  in  the  pleasura- 
ble or  painful  interests  and  emotions  of  ourselves  or  our  friends? 
What  space  do  they  ever  occupy  in  the  thousand  little  narratives 
of  personal  experience  which  pass  every  day  by  word  of  mouth  from 
one  of  us  to  the  other  ?  All  that  our  minds  can  compass,  all  that 
our  hearts  can  learn,  can  be  accomplished  with  equal  certainty,  equal 
profit,  and  equal  satisfaction  to  ourselves,  in  the  poorest  as  in  the 
richest  prospect  that  the  face  of  the  earth  can  show.  There  is  sure- 
ly a  reason  for  this  want  of  inborn  sympathy  between  the  creature 
and  the  creation  around  it,  a  reason  which  may  perhaps  be  found  in 
the  widely  difiering  destinies  of  man  and  his  earthly  sphere.  The 
grandest  mountain  pros}>ect  that  the  eye  can  range  over  is  appointed 
to  annihilation.  The  smallest  human  interest  that  the  pure  heart 
can  feel  is  appointed  to  immortality. 

"We  had  been  out  nearly  three  hours,  when  the  carriage  again 
passed  through  the  gates  of  Limmeridge  House. 

On  our  way  back,  I  had  let  the  ladies  settle  for  themselves  the 
first  point  of  \dew  which  they  were  to  sketch,  under  my  instructions, 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day.  When  they  withdrew  to  dress 
for  dinner,  and  when  I  was  alone  again  in  my  little  sitting-room,  my 
spirits  seemed  to  leave  me  on  a  sudden.  I  felt  ill  at  ease  and  dis- 
satisfied with  myself,  I  hardly  knew  why.  Perhaps  I  was  now  con- 
scious, for  the  first  time,  of  having  enjoyed  our  drive  too  much  in 
the  character  of  a  guest,  and  too  little  in  the  character  of  a  drawing- 
master.  Perhaps  that  strange  sensfi->Q£aQ£afitMogjvanting,  either  in 
Miss  Fairlie  or  in  myself,  which  had  perplexed  me  when  I  was  first 
introduced  to  her,  haunted  iioeL^lLj/  Anyhow,  it  was  a  relief  to  my 
spirits  when  the  dinner-iiotir  called  me  out  of  my  solitude,  and  took 
me  back  to  the  society  of  the  ladies  of  the  house. 

I  was  struck,  on  entering  the  drawing-room,  by  the  curious  con- 
trast, rather  in  material  than  in  color,  of  the  dresses  which  they  now 
wore.  While  Mrs.  Vesey  and  Miss  Halcombe  were  richly  clad  (each 
in  the  manner  most  becoming  to  her  age),  the  first  in  silver-gray,  and 
the  second  in  that  delicate  primrose-yellow  color  which  matches  so 
well  with  a  dark  complexion  and  black  hair,  Miss  Fairlie  was  unpre- 
tendingly and  almost  poorly  dressed  in  plain  white  muslin.  It  was 
spotlessly  pure :  it  was  beautifully  put  on ;  but  still  it  was  the  sort 
of  dress  which  the  wife  or  daughter  of  a  poor  man  might  have  worn ; 
and  it  made  her,  so  far  as  extiynals  went,  look  less  affluent  in  circum- 


62  thp:  woman  in  aviuti:. 

stances  than  licr  own  fjoverncss.  At  a  later  ijcriotl,  wlien  I  learned 
to  know  more  of  Miss  Fairlie's  character,  I  discovered  tliat  this  curi- 
ous contrast,  on  the  wrong  side,  was  due  to  licr  natural  delicacy  of 
feeling  and  natural  intensity  of  aversion  to  the  slightest  personal 
display  of  her  own  wealth.  Neither  jMrs.  Vesey  nor  Miss  Halconibe 
could  ever  induce  her  to  let  the  advantage  in  dress  desert  the  two 
ladies  who  were  jDoor,  to  lean  to  the  side  of  the  one  lady  who  was 
rich. 

Wi)en  the  dinner  was  over,  we  returned  together  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Although  3Ir.  Fairlie  (emulating  the  magnificent  condescen- 
sion of  the  monarch  who  had  picked  up  Titian's  l>rush  for  him)  had 
instructed  his  butler  to  consult  my  wishes  in  relation  to  the  wine 
that  I  might  prefer  after  dinner,  I  was  resolute  enough  to  resist  the 
temptation  of  sitting  in  solitary  grandeur  among  bottles  of  my  own 
choosing,  and  sensible  enough  to  ask  the  ladies'  permission  to  leave 
the  table  with  them  habitually,  on  the  civilized  foreign  plan,  during 
the  period  of  my  residence  at  Limmeridge  House. 

The  drawing-room,  to  which  we  had  now  withdrawn  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening,  was  on  the  ground-floor,  and  was  of  the  same  sha})e 
and  size  as  the  breakfast-room.  Large  glass  doors  at  the  lower  end 
opened  on  to  a  terrace,  beautifully  ornamented  along  its  whole  length 
with  a  profusion  of  flowers.  The  soft  hazy  twilight  was  just  shad- 
ing leaf  and  blossom  alike  into  harmony  with  its  own  sober  hues,  as 
we  entered  the  room  ;  and  the  sweet  evening  scent  of  the  flowers  met 
us  with  its  fragrant  welcome  through  the  open  glass  doors.  Good 
Mrs.  Vesey  (always  the  first  of  the  party  to  sit  down)  took  possession 
of  an  arm-chair  in  a  corner,  and  dozed  off  comfortably  to  sleep.  At — 
my  request,  Miss  Fairlie  placed  herself  at  the  piano.  As  I  followed 
her  to  a  seat  near  the  instrument,  I  saw^  Miss  Halcombe  retire  into  a 
recess  of  one  of  the  side  windows,  to  proceed  with  the  search  through 
her  mothers  letters  by  the  last  quiet  rays  of  the  evening  light. 

How"  vividly  that  peaceful  home-picture  of  the  drawing-room 
comes  back  to  me  while  I  write !  From  the  place  where  I  sat  I 
could  see  Miss  Halcombe's  graceful  figure,  half  of  it  in  soft  light,  half 
in  mysterious  shadow,  bending  intently  over  the  letters  in  her  lap ; 
while,  nearer  to  me,  the  fair  profile  of  the  player  at  the  piano  was 
just  delicately  defined  against  the  faintly  deepening  background  of 
the  inner  wall  of  the  room.  Outside,  on  the  terrace,  the  clustering 
flowers  and  long  grasses  and  creepers  waved  so  gently  in  the  light 
evening  air,  that  the  sound  of  their  rustling  never  reached  us.  The 
sky  was  without  a  cloud ;  and  the  dawning  mystery  of  moonlight 
began  to  tremble  already  in  the  region  of  the  eastern  heaven.  The 
sense  of  peace  and  seclusion  soothed  all  thought  and  feeling  into  a 
rapt,  unearthly  repose ;  and  the  balmy  quiet  that  deepened  ever  with 
the  deepening  light,  seemed  to  hover  over  us  with  a  gentler  influence 


THE    WOMAX    IX    AVHITE.  53 

still,  wlien  there  stole  upon  it  from  the  piar.o  the  heavenly  tender- 
ness of  the  music  of  Mozart.  It  was  an  evening  of  sights  and  sounds 
never  to  forget. 

We  all  sat  silent  in  the  places  we  had  chosen — >Ii-s.  Vesey  still 
sleeping,  Miss  Fairlie  still  playing,  Miss  Halcombe  still  reading — till 
the  light  failed  us.  By  this  time  the  moon  had  stolen  round  to  the 
terrace,  and  soft  mysterious  rays  of  light  were  slanting  already  across 
the  lower  end  of  the  room.  The  change  from  the  twilight  obscurity 
was  so  beautiful,  that  we  banished  the  lamps,  by  common  consent, 
when  the  servant  brought  them  in,  and  kept  the  large  room  un- 
lighted,  except  by  the  glimmer  of  the  two  candles  at  the  piano. 

For  half  an  hour  more  the  music  still  went  on.  After  that,  the 
beauty  of  the  moonlight  view  on  the  terrace  tempted  iVIiss  Fairlie 
out  to  look  at  it:  and  I  followed  her.  When  the  candles  at  the 
piano  had  been  lighted.  Miss  Halcombe  had  changed  her  place,  so 
as  to  continue  her  examination  of  the  letters  by  their  assistance.  We 
left  her,  on  a  low  chair,  at  one  side  of  the  instrument,  so  absorbed 
over  her  reading  that  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  when  we  moved. 

We  had  been  out  on  the  terrace  together,  just  in  front  of  the  glass 
doors,  hardly  so  long  as  five  minutes,  I  should  think ;  and  Miss  Fair- 
lie  was,  by  my  advice,  just  tying  her  white  handkerchief  over  her 
liead  as  a  precaution  against  the  night  air — when  I  heard  Miss  Hal- 
rombe's  voice — low,  eager,  and  altered  from  its  natural  lively  tone— ■ 
pronounce  my  name. 

"  Mr.  Hartright,''  she  said, ''  v.'iil  you  come  here  for  a  minute  ?  I 
want  to  speak  to  you." 

I  entered  the  room  again  immediately.  The  piano  stood  about 
half-way  down  along  the  inner  wall.  On  the  side  of  the  instrument 
farthest  from  the  terrace,  Miss  Halcombe  was  sitting  with  the  letters 
scattered  on  her  lap,  and  with  one  in  her  hand  selected  from  them, 
and  held  close  to  the  candle.  On  the  side  nearest  to  the  terrace 
there  stood  a  low  ottoman,  on  which  I  took  my  place.  In  this  posi- 
tion, I  was  not  far  from  the  glass  doors;  and  I  could  see  Miss  Fairlie 
plainly,  as  she  passed  and  repassed  the  opening  on  to  the  terrace; 
w^alking  slowly  from  end  to  end  of  it  in  the  full  radiance  of  the  moon. 

"  I  want  you  to  listen  while  I  read  the  concluding  passages  in  this 
letter."  said  Miss  Halcombe.  ''  Tell  me  if  you  think  they  throw  any 
light  upon  your  strange  adventure  on  the  road  to  London.  The 
letter  is  addressed  by  my  mother  to  her  second  husband,  Mr.  Fairlie ; 
and  the  date  refers  to  a  period  of  between  eleven  and  twelve  years 
since.  At  that  time,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fairlie,  and  my  half-sister  Laura, 
had  been  living  for  years  in  this  house ;  and  I  was  away  from  them, 
completing  my  education  at  a  school  in  Paris." 

She  looked  and  spoke  earnestly,  and,  as  I  thought,  a  little  uneasily 
as  well.     At  the  moment  when  she  raised  the  letter  to  the  candle 


-lO  -^"^    ^ 


,u^v- 


54  THE    AVOMAX    IN    AVIIITE. 

before  beginning  to  read  it,  Miss  Fairlie  passed  us  on  the  terrace, 
looked  in  for  a  moment,  and,  seeing  that  we  were  engaged,  slowly 
walked  on. 

Miss  Halcombe  began  to  read,  as  follows: 

" '  You  will  be  tired,  my  dear  Philip,  of  hearing  perpetually  about 
my  schools  and  my  scholars.  Lay  the  blame,  i>ray,  on  the  dull  uni- 
formity of  life  at  Limmeridge,  and  not  on  me.  Besides,  this  time,  I 
have  something  really  interesting  to  tell  you  about  a  new  scholar. 

••"you  know  old  Mrs.  Kempe  at  the  village  shop.  AVell,  after 
years  of  ailing,  the  doctor  has  at  last  given  her  up,  and  she  is  dyin^ 
slowly,  day  by  day.  Her  only  living  relation,  a  sister,  arrived  last 
week  to  take  care  of  her.  This  sister  comes  all  the  way  from  Hamp- 
shire— her  name  is  Mrs.  Catherick.  Four  days  ago  Mrs.  Catherick 
came  here  to  see  me,  a;nd  brought  her  only  child  with  her,  a  sweet 
little  gu-1  about  a  year  older  than  our  darling  Laura — '  '* 

As  the  last  sentence  fell  froDi  the  reader's  lips.  Miss  Fairh'e  passed 
us  on  the  terrace  once  more.  She  was  softly  singing  to  herself  one 
of  the  melodies  which  she  had  been  playing  earlier  in  the  evening. 
Miss  Halcombe  waited  till  she  had  passed  out  of  sight  again,  and 
then  went  on  with  the  letter : 

,*  "'Mrs.  Catherick  is  a  decent,  w^ell-behaved,  respectable  woman; 
'^TT»iddle-aged,  and  with  the  remains  of  having  been  moderately,  only 
moderately,  nice-looking.  There  is  something  in  her  manner  and 
in  her  appearance,  however,  which  T'canTlnake  out.  She  is  reserved 
about  lierself  to  tlie  point  of  downright  secrecy;  and  there  is  a  look 
in  her  face — I  can't  describe  it — which  suggests  to  me  that  she-kas 
something  on  her  mind.  She  is  altogether  what  you  wDuld  call  ii 
walking  mystery.  Her  errand  at  Limmeridge  House,  however,  was 
simple  enough.  When  she  left  Hampshire  to  nurse  her  sister,  Mrs. 
Kemi^e,  through  her  last  illness,  she  had  been  obliged  to  bring  her 
daughter  with  her,  through  having  no  one  at  home  to  take  care  of 
the  little  girl.  Mrs.  Kempe  may  die  in  a  week's  time,  or  may  linger 
on  for  months;  and  Mrs.  Catheiiek's  object  was  to  ask  me  to  let  her 
daughter,  Anne,  have  the  benefit  of  attending  my  school ;  subject  to 
the  condithorTl)?  her  being  removed  from  it  to  go  home  again  with 
her  mother,  after  Mrs.  Kempe's  death.  I  consented  at  once;  and 
when  Laura  and  I  went  out  for  our  walk,  we  took  the  little  girl  (who 
is  just  eleven  years  old)  to  the  school,  that  very  day.'" 

Once  more  Miss  Fairlie's  figure,  bright  and  sofl  in  its  snowy  muslin 
dress — her  face  prettily  framed  by  the  white  folds  of  the  handker- 
chief which  she  had  tied  under  her  chin— passed  by  us  in  the  moon- 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  55 

light.     Once  more  Miss  Halcombe  waited  till  she  was  out  of  sight, 
and  then  went  on  : 

" '  I  have  taken  a  violent  fancy,  Philip,  to  my  new  scholar,  for  a 
reason  which  I  mean  to  keep  to  the  last  for  the  sake  of  surprising 
you.  Her  mother  having  told  me  as  little  about  the  child  as  slie 
told  me  of  herself,  I  was  left  to  discover  (which  I  did  on  the  first 
day  wlien  we  tried  her  at  lessons)  that  the  poor  little  Thing's  intellect 
is  not  developed  as  it  ought  to  be  at  her  age.  Seeing  this,  I  had 
licr  up  to  the  house  the  next  day,  and  privately  arnmged  with  the 
doctor  to  come  and  watch  her  and  question  her,  and  tell  me  what 
he  thought.  His  opinion  is  that  she  v,ill  grow  out  of  it.  But  he 
cays  her  careful  bringing  up  at  school  is  a  matter  of  great  importance 
just  now,  because  her  unusual  slowness  in  acquiring  ideas  implies  an 
unusual  tenacity  in  keeping  them,  when  they  are  once  received  into 
her  mind.  Now,  my  love,  you  must  not  imagine  in  your  off-hand 
way,  that  I  have  been  attaching  myself  to  an  idiot.  This  poor  little 
Anne  jCatherick  is  a  sweet,  afiectionate,  grateful  girl ;  and  says  the 
quaintest,  preffiest  things  (as  you  shall  judge  by  an  instance),  in  the 
most  oddly  sudden,  surprised,  half-frightened  way.  Although  she 
is  dressed  very  neath',  her  clothes  show  a  sad  want  of  taste  in  color 
and  pattern.  So  I  arranged,  yesterday,  that  some  of  our  darling 
Laura's  old  white  frocks  and  white  hats  should  be  altered  for  Anne 
Catherick;  explaining  to  herttrariittle-girfs  of  her  complexion  Took- 
ect  neater  and  better  all  in  white  than  in  any  thing  else.  She  hes- 
itated and  seemed  puzzled  for  a  minute;  then  flushed  up,  and  ap- 
peared to  understand.  Her  little  hand  clasped  mine  suddenly.  She 
kissed  it,  Philip ;  and  said  (oh,  so  earnestly !),  "  I  will  always  wear 
white  as  long  as  I  live.  It  will  help  me  to  remember  you,  ma'am, 
and  to  think  that  I  am  pleasing  you  still,  when  I  go  away  and  see 
you  no  more."  This  is  only  one  specimen  of  the  quaint  things  she 
says  so  prettily.  Poor  little  soul !  She  shall  have  a  stock  of  white 
frocks,  made  with  good  deep  tucks,  to  let  out  for  her  as  she  grows — '" 

^.^^  Miss  Halcombe  paused,  and  looked  at  me  across  the  piano. 

"  Did  the  forlorn  woman  whom  you  met  in  the  high-road  seem 
young  ?"  she  asked.    "  Young  enough  to  be  two  or  three  and  twenty  ?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Halcombe,  as  young  as  that." 

"And  she  v.as  strangely  dressed,  from  head  to  foot,  all  in  white?" 

"All  in  white." 

While  the  answer  was  passing  my  lips,  Miss  Fairlie  glided  into 
view  on  the  terrace,  for  the  third  time.  Instead  of  proceeding  on 
her  walk,  she  stopped,  with  her  back  turned  toward  us ;  and,  leaning 
on  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace,  looked  down  into  the  garden  be- 
yond.    My  eyes  fixed  upon  the  white  gleam  of  her  muslin  gown  and 


k 


56  Tin-:  woman  ix  white. 

liead-dro?s  in  the  moonlight,  and  a  sensation,  for  which  I  can  find  no 
name — a  sensation  that  quickened  my  pulse,  and  raised  a  fluttering 
at  my  heart — began  to  steal  over  me. 

''All  in  white?"  Miss  Ilulcombe  repeated.  "The  most  important 
sentences  in  the  letter,  Mr.  Ilartriglit,  are  those  at  the  end,  whicli  I 
will  read  to  you  immediately.  But  I  can't  help  drawing  a  little 
upon  the  coincidence  of  the  white  costume  of  the  woman  you  met, 
and  the  white  uocks  which  produced  tiiat  strange  answer  from  my 
mother's  little  scholar.  The  doctor  may  have  been  wrong  when  he 
discovered  the  child's  defects  of  intellect,  and  predicted  that  she 
would  '  grow  out  of  them.'  She  may  never  have  grown  out  of  them  : 
and  the  old  grateful  fancy  about  dressing  in  wliite,  which  was  a  seri- 
ous feeling  to  the  girl,  may  be  a  serious  feeling  to  the  woman  still." 

I  said  a  few  words  in  answer— I  hardly  know  what.  All  my  at- 
tention was  concentrated  on  the  white  gleam  of  Miss  Fairlie's  mus- 
lin dress. 

"  Listen  to  the  last  sentences  of  the  letter,''  said  Miss  Halcombe. 
"  I  think  they  will  surprise  you." 

As  she  raised  the  letter  to  the  light  of  the  candle.  Miss  Fairlie 
turned  from  the  balustrade,  looked  doubtfully  up  and  down  tho 
terrace,  advanced  a  step  toward  the  glass  doors,  and  then  stojDped. 
facing  us. 

Meanwhile,  Miss  Halcombe  read  me  the  last  sentences  to  which 
she  had  referred : 

"  'And  now,  my  love,  seeing  that  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  paper,  now 
for  the  real  reason,  the  surprising  reason,  for  my  fondness  for  little 
Anne  Catherick.  My  dear  Philip,  although  she  is  not  half  so  pretty, 
she  is,  nevertheless,  by  one  of  those  extraordinary  caprices  of  acci- 
dental resemblance  v,'hich  one  sometimes  sees,  the  living  likeness,  in 
lier  hair,  her  complexion,  the  color  of  her  eyes,  and  the  shape  of 
her  face — '  " 

I  started  up  from  the  ottoman,  before  Miss  Halcombe  could  pro- 
nounce the  next  words.  A  thrill  of  tlie  same  feeling  which  n.a 
through  me  wlien  the  touch  was  laid  upon  my  shoulder  on  the  lone 
ly  high-road,  chilled  me  again. 

There  stood  Miss  Fairlie, a  white  figure,  alone  in  the  moonlight; 
in  lier  attitude,  in  the  turn  of  her  head,  in  lier  complexion,  in  the 
shape  of  her  face,  the  living  image,  at  that  distance  and  under  those 
circumstances,  of  the  woman  in  white  !  The  doubt  which  had  trou- 
bled my  mind  for  hours  and  hours  past,  flashed  into  conviz-tion  in 
an  instant.  That  "  something  wanting"  was  my  own  recognition  of 
the  ominous  likeness  between  the  fugitive  from  tlie  asylum  and  my 
pupil  at  Limmeridge  House. 

You  see  it !"  said  Miss  Halcombe.     She  dropped  the  useless  let- 


THE    WOMAX    IX    AVHITE.  57 

ier,  and  her  eyes  flashed  as  they  met  mine.  "  You  sec  it  now,  as  my 
mother  saw  it  eleven  years  since  '/' 

''  I  see  it — more  unwillingly  than  I  can  say.  To  associate  that  for- 
lorn, friendless,  lost  woman,  even  by  an  accidental  likeness  only,  with 
Miss  Fail-lie,  seems  like  casting  a  shadow  on  the  future  of  the  bright 
creature  who  stands  looking  at  us  now.  Let  me  lose  the  impression 
again,  as  soon  as  possiljle.  Call  her  in,  out  of  the  dreary  moonlight 
— pray  call  her  in  I" 

''Mr.  Hartright,  you  surprise  me.  Whatever  women  may  be,  I 
thought  that  men,  in  the  nineteenth  century,  were  above  sujierstition." 

"  Pray  call  her  in  I"' 

"  Hush,  hush  !  She  is  coming  of  her  own  accord.  Say  nothing 
in  her  presence.  Let  this  discovery  of  the  likeness  be  kept  a  secret 
between  you  and  me.  Come  in,  Laura;  come  in,  and  wake  Mrs. 
Yesey  with  the  piano.  Mr.  Hartright  is  petitioning  for  some  more 
music,  and  he  wants  it  this  time  of  the  lightest  and  liveliest  kind."  ■ 

IX. 

So  ended  my  eventful  first  day  at  Limmeridge  House. 

Miss  Halcombe  and  I  kept  our  secret.  After  the  discoveiy  of  the 
likeness  no  fresh  light  seemed  destined  to  break  over  the  mystery  of 
the  woman  in  white.  At  the  first  safe  opportunity  Miss  Halcombe 
cautioiisTy  Ted  her  half-sister  to  speak  of  their  mother,  of  old  times, 
and  of  Anne  Catherick.  Miss  Fairlie's  recollections  of  the  little  schol- 
ar at  Limmeridge  were,  however,  only  of  the  most  vague  and  gen- 
eral kind.  She  remembered  the  likeness  between  herself  and  her 
mothers  favorite  pupil,  as  something  which  had  been  supposed  to 
exist  in  past  times ;  but  she  did  not  refer  to  the  gift  of  the  M'hite 
dresses,  or  to  the  singular  form  of  words  in  which  the  child  had  art- 
lessly expressed  her  gratitude  for  them.  She  remembered  that  Anne 
had  remained  at  Limmeridge  for  a  few  months  only,  and  had  then 
left  it  to  go  back  to  her  home  in  Hampshire ;  but  she  could  not  say 
whether  the  mother  and  daughter  had  ever  returned,  or  had  ever 
been  heard  of  afterward.  No  further  search  on  Miss  Halcombe's 
part,  through  the  few  letters  of  IMrs.  Fairlie's  writing  which  she  had 
left  unread,  assisted  in  clearing  uj)  the  uncertainties  still  left  to  per- 
plex us.  W^  had  identified  4he  unhapi>y  ■RK)man  whom  I  had  met 
in  the  night-time  with  Anne  Catherick — we  had  made  some  ad- 
vance, at  least,  toward  connecting  the  probably  defective  condition 
of  the  poor  creature's  intellect  M'ith  the  peculiarity  of  her  being 
dressed  all  in  white,  and  with  the  continuance,  in  her  maturer  years, 
of  her  childish  gratitude  toward  Mrs.  Fairlie — and  there,  so  far  as 
we  knew  at  that  time,  our  discoveries  had  ended. 

The  days  passed  on,  the  weeks  passed  on ;  and  the  track  of  the 

3* 


58  THE    WOMAN    IN    WniTE. 

golden  autumn  T\'ound  its  bright  ^'ay  visibly  through  the  green  sum- 
mer of  the  trees.  Peaceful,  fast-flowing,  hai)py  time  I  my  story  glides 
by  you  now,  as  swiftly  as  you  once  glided  by  me.  Of  all  the  treas- 
ures of  enjoyment  that  you  poured  so  freely  into  my  heart,  how  much 
is  left  me  that  has  puri)ose  and  value  enough  to  be  written  on  thi^ 
page  ?  J^othing  but  the  saddest  of  all  confessions  that  a  man  can 
make-i-the  confession  of  his  own  foil vi 

The  secret  which  that  confession  discloses  should  be  told  with  lit- 
tle effort,  for  it  lias  indirectly  escaped  me  already.  The  poor  weak 
words  -which  have  failed  to  describe  Miss  Fairlie,  have  succeeded  in 
betraying  the  sensations  she  awakened  in  me.  It  is  so  with  us  all. 
Our  words  are  giants  when  they  do  us  an  injmy,  and  dwarfs  when 
they  do  us  a  service. 
'Hl  loved  her. 

Ah !  how^  well  I  know  all  the  sadness  and  all  the  mockery  that  is 
contained  in  those  three  words.  I  can  sigh  over  my  mournful  con- 
fession with  the  tenderest  woman  who  reads  it  and  pities  me.  I  can 
laugh  at  it  as  bitterly  as  the  hardest  man  Avho  tosses  it  from  him  in 
contempt.  I  loved  her !  Feel  for  me,  or  despise  me,  I  confess  it  with 
the  same  immovable  resolution  to  own  the  truth. 

Was  there  no  excuse  for  me?  There  was  some  excuse  to  be  found, 
surely,  in  the  conditions  under  which  my  term-of  hired  service  was 
passed  at  Limmeridge  House. 

My  morning  hours  succeeded  each  other  calmly  in  the  quiet  and 
seclusion  of  my  own  room.  I  had  just  work  enough  to  do,  in  mount- 
ing my  employer's  drawings,  to  keep  my  hands  and  eyes  pleasurably 
employed,  while  my  mind  was  left  free  to  enjoy  the  dangerous  luxury 
of  its  own  unbridled  thoughts.  A  perilous  solitude,  for  it  lasted  long 
enough  to  enervate,  not  long  enough  to  fortify  me.  A  perilous  soli- 
tude, for  it  was  followed  by  afternoons  and  evenings  spent,  day  after 
day  and  week  after  week,  alone  in  the  society  of  two  women,  one  of 
whom  possessed  all  the  accomplishments  of  grace,  vv'it,  and  high- 
breeding,  the  other  all  the  charms  of  beauty,  gentleness,  and  simple 
truth,  that  can  purify  and  subdue  the  heart  of  man.  Not  a  day 
passed,  in  that  dangerous  intimacy  of  teacher  and  pupil,  in  which 
my  hand  was  not  close  to  Miss  Fairlie's;  my  cheek,  as  we  bent  to- 
gether over  her  sketch-book,  almost  touching  hers.  The  more  atten- 
tively she  watched  every  movement  of  my  brush,  the  more  closely  1 
was  breathing  the  perfume  of  her  hair  and  the  warm  fragrance  of 
her  breath.  \l  was  part  of  my  service  to  live  in  the  very  light  of 
her  eyes — at  one  time  to  l^e  bending  over  lier.  so  close  to  her  bosom 
as  to  tremble  at  the  thought  of  touching  it;  at  another,  to  feel  her 
bending  over  me,  bending  so  close  to  see  what  I  was  about,  that  her 
voice  sank  low^  when  she  spoke  to  me,  and  her  ribbons  brushed  my 
cheek  in  the  wind  l»cforc  she  could  draw  them  back. 


THE    WOifAX    IX    WHITE.  59' 

The  evenings  wliicli  followed  the  sketching  excursions  of  the  af- 
ternoon, varied,  rather  than  checked,  these  innocent,  these  inevitable 
familianties.  My  natural  fondness  for  the  music  M'hich  she  played 
with  such  tender  feeling,  such  delicate  womanly  taste,  and  her  nat- 
ural enjoyment  of  giving  me  back,  by  tlie  practice  of  her  art,  the 
pleasure  which  I  had  otiered  to  lier  by  the  practice  of  mine,  only 
wove  another  tie  which  drew  us  closer  and  closer  to  one  another. 
The  accidents  of  conversation;  the  simi3le  habits  which  regulated 
even  such  a  little  thing  as  the  position  of  our  places  at  table;  the 
play  of  Miss  Halcombe's  ever-ready  raillery,  always  directed  against 
my  anxiety,  as  teacher,  while  it  sparkled  over  her  enthusiasm  as 
pupil ;  the  harmless  expression  of  poor  Mrs.  Vesey's  drowsy  approval 
which  connected  Miss  Fairlie  and  me  as  two  model  young  people 
who  never  disturbed  her — every  one  of  these  trifles,  and  many  more, 
combined  to  fold  us  together  in  the  same  domestic  atmosjDhere,  and 
to  lead  us  both  insensibly  to  the  same  hopeless  end. 

I  should  have  remembered  my  position,  and  have  put  myself  se- 
cretly on  my  guard.  I  did  so;  but  not  till  it  was  too  late.  All 
the  discretion,  all  the  experience,  which  had  availed  me  with  other 
women,  and  secured  me  against  other  temptations,  failed  me  w4th 
her.  It  had  been  my  profession,  for  years  past,  to  be  in  this  close 
contact  with  young  girls  of  ail  ages,  and  of  all  orders  of  beauty.  I 
had  accepted  the  position  as  part  of  my  calling  in  life ;  I  had  trained 
myself  to  leave  all  the  sympathies  natural  to  my  age  in  my  employ- 
er's outer  hall,  as  coolly  as  I  left  my  umbrella  there  before  I  went  up 
stairs.  I  had  long  since  learned  to  understand,  comjjosedly  and  as 
a  matter  of  course,  that  my  situation  in  life  was  considered  a  guar- 
antee against  any  of  my  female  pupils  feeling  more  than  the  most 
ordinary  interest  in  me,  and  that  I  was  admitted  among  beautiful 
and  captivating  women,  much  as  a  harmless  domestic  animal  is  ad- 
mitted among  them.  This  guardian  experience  I  had  gained  early; 
this  guardian  experience  had  sternly  and  strictly  guided  me  straight 
along  my  own  poor  narrow  path,  without  once  letting  me  stray  aside, 
to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left.  And  now  I  and  my  trusty  talisman 
were  parted  for  the  first  time.  Yes,  my  hardly-earned  self-control 
was  as  completely  lost  to  me  as  if  I  had  never  possessed  it ;  lost  to 
me  as  it  is  lost  every  day  to  other  men,  in  other  critical  situations, 
where  women  are  concerned.  I  know,  now,  that  I  should  have  ques- 
tioned myself  from  the  first.  I  should  have  asked  why  any  room  in 
the  house  was  better  than  home  to  me  wdien  she  entered  it,  and  bar- 
ren as  a  desert  when  she  went  out  again — why  I  always  noticed  and 
remembered  the  little  changes  in  her  dress  that  I  had  noticed  and 
remembered  in  no  other  woman's  before- — why  I  saw"  her,  heard  her, 
and  touched  her  (when  we  shook  hands  at  night  and  morning)  as  I 
had  never  seen,  heard,  and  touched  any  other  woman  in  my  life  ?     I 


6.0  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

should  have  looked  into  my  own  heart,  and  found  this  new  growth 
springing  up  there,  and  plueked  it  out  while  it  was  young.  Why  was 
this  easiest,  simplest  work  of  self-culture  always  too  much  for  me? 
The  explanation  lias  been  written  already  in  the  three  wp-rds  that 
Avere  many  enough,  and  plain  enough,  for  my  confession.    jHoved  her. 

The  days  passed,  the  weeks  passed ;  it  was  approachingtlKi  third 
month  of  my  stay  in  Cumberland.  The  delicious  monotony  of  life 
in  our  calm  seclusion,  flowed  on  with  me  like  a  smooth  stream  with 
a  swimmer  who  glides  down  the  current.  All  memory  of  the  past, 
all  thought  of  the  future,  all  sense  of  the  falseness  and  hopelessness 
of  my  own  position,  lay  hushed  within  me  into  deceitful  rest.  Lulled 
by  the  Syren-song  that  my  own  heart  sung  to  me,  with  eyes  shut  to 
all  sight,  and  ears  closed  to  all  sound  of  danger,  I  drifted  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  fatal  rocks.  The  warning  that  aroused  me  at  last, 
and  startled  me  into  sudden,  self-accusing  consciousness  of  my  own 
weakness,  was  the  plainest,  the  truest,  the  kindest  of  all  warnings, 
for  it  came  silently  from  her. 

Y/e  had  parted  one  night,  as  usual.  No  word  had  fallen  from  my 
lips,  at  that  time  or  at  any  time  before  it,  that  could  betray  me,  or 
startle  her  into  sudden  knowledge  of  the  truth.  But,  when  we  met 
again  in  the  morning,  a  change  had  come  over  her — a  change  that 
told  me  all. 

I  shrank  then — I  shrink  still — from  invading  the  innermost  sanc- 
tuary of  her  heart,  and  laying  it  open  to  others,  as  I  have  laid  open 
my  own.  Let  it  be  enough  to  say  that  the  time  when  she  first  sm*- 
prised  my  secret  was,  I  firmly  believe,  the  time  when  she  first  sur- 
prised her  own,  and  the  time,  also,  when  she  changed  toward  me  in 
the  interval  of  one  night.  Her  nature,  too  truthful  to  deceive  others, 
was  too  noble  to  deceive  itself.  When  the  doubt  that  I  had  hushed 
asleep,  first  laid  its  weary  weight  on  her  heart,  the  true  face  owned 
all.  and  said,  in  its  own  frank,  simple  language — I  am  sorry  for  him ; 
I  am  sorry  for  myself 

It  said  this,  and  more,  which  I  could  not  then  intei-jM-et.  I  under- 
stood but  too  well  the  change  in  her  manner,  to  greater  kindness  and 
quicker  readiness  in  interpreting  all  my  wishes,  before  others — to 
constraint  and  sadness,  and  nervous  anxiety  to  absorb  herself  in  the 
first  occupation  she  could  seize  on,  whenever  we  happened  to  be  left 
together  alone.  I  understood  why  the  sweet  sensitive  lips  smiled  so 
rarely  and  so  restrainedly  now;  and  why  the  clear  blue  eyes  looked 
at  me,  sometimes  with  the  pity  of  an  angel,  sometimes  with  the  in- 
nocent perplexity  of  a  child.  But  the  change  meant  more  than  this. 
There  was  a  coldness  in  her  hand,  there  was  an  unnatural  immobility 
in  her  face,  there  was  in  all  her  movements  the  mute  expression  of 
constant  fear  and  clinging  self-reproach.  The  sensations  that  I  could 
trace  to  herself  and  to  me,  the  unacknowledged  sensations  that  we 


THE    WOMAN    IN'    WHITE.  61 

were  feeling  in  common,  were  not  these.  There  were  certain  ele- 
ments of  the  change  in  her  that  were  still  secretly  drawing  us  to- 
gether, and  others  that  were  as  secretly  beginning  to  drive  us  apart. 

In  my  doubt  and  peri^lexity,  in  my  vague  suspicion  of  something 
hidden  which  I  was  left  to  find  by  my  own  unaided  efforts,  I^ex- 
amined  Mi^  Halcombe's  looks  and  manner  for  enlightenment.  Liv- 
ing in  such  intimacy  as  ours,  no  serious  alteration  could  take  place 
in  any  one  of  us  v^diich  did  not  sympathetically  affect  the  others. 
The  change  in  Miss  Fairlie  was  reflected  in  her  half-sister.  Although 
not  a  Avord  escaped  Miss  Halcombe  which  hinted  at  an  altered  state 
of  feeling  toward  myself,  her  penetrating  eyes  had  contracted  a  new 
habit  of  always  watching  me.  Sometimes  the  look  was  like  sup- 
pressed anger;  sometimes  like  suppressed  dread;  sometimes  like 
neither — like  nothing,  in  short,  which  I  could  understand.  A  week 
elapsed,  leaving  us  all  three  still  in  this  position  of  secret  constraint 
toward  one  another.  My  situation,  aggravated  by  the  sense  of  my 
own  miserable  weakness  and  forgetfuluess  of  myself,  now  too  late 
awakened  in  me,  was  becoming  intolerable.  I  felt  that  I  must  cast 
off  the  oppression  under  which  I  was  living,  at  once  and  forever — 
yet  how  to  act  for  the  best,  or  what  to  say  first  was  more  than  I 
could  tell. 

From  this  position  of  helplessness  and  humiliation,  I  was  rescued 
by  :Miss  Halcombe.  Her  lips  told  me  the  bitter,  the  necessarj^  the 
unexpected  truth ;  her  hearty  kindness  sustained  me  under  the  shock 
of  hearing  it ;  and  her  sense  and  courage  turned  to  its  right  use  an 
event  which  threatened  the  worst  that  could  happen,  to  mc  and  to 
others,  in  Limmeridge  House. 

X. 

It  was  on  a  Thursday  in  the  week,  and  nearly  at  the  end  of  the 
third  mouth  of  my  sojourn  in  Cumberland. 

In  the  morning,  when  I  v»^ent  down  into  the  breakfast-room,  at  the 
usual  hour.  Miss  Halcombe,  for  the  first  time  since  I  had  known  her, 
was  absent  from  her  customaiy  place  at  the  table. 

Miss  Fairlie  was  out  on  the  lawn.  She  bowed  to  me,  but  did  not 
come  in.  Not  a  word  had  dropped  from  my  lips,  or  from  hers,  that 
could  unsettle  either  of  us — and  yet  the  same  unacknowledged  sense 
of  embarrassment  made  us  shrink  alike  from  meeting  one  another 
alone.  She  waited  on  the  lawn  ;  and  I  waited  in  the  breakfiist-room, 
till  Mrs.  Vesey  or  Miss  Halcombe  came  in.  How  quickly  I  should 
have  joined  her:  how  readily  we  should  have  shaken  hands,  and 
glided  into  our  customary  talk,  only  a  fortnight  ago  ! 

In  a  few  minutes  Miss  Halcombe  entered.  She  had  a  preoccupied 
look,  and  she  made  her  apologies  for  being  late,  rather  absently. 

"I  have  been  detained,"  she  said,  "by  a  consultation  with  Mr, 


62  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

Fairlie  on  a  domestic  matter  wliich  he  Avished  to  speak  to  me 
al>out." 

Miss  Fairlie  came  in  from  the  garden  ;  and  tlie  usual  moraing 
greeting  passed  between  us.  Her  hand  struck  colder  to  mine  than 
ever.  She  did  not  look  at  me;  and  she  was  very  pale.  Even  Mrs. 
Vesey  noticed  it,  when  she  entered  the  room  a  moment  after. 

"I  suppose  it  is  the  change  in  the  wind,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  The 
winter  is  coming — ah,  my  love,  the  winter  is  coming  soon  !" 

In  her  heart  and  in  mine  it  had  come  already  I 

Our  morning  meal  —  once  so  full  of  pleasant  good-humored  dis- 
cussion of  the  plans  for  the  day — was  short  and  silent.  Miss  Fairlie 
seemed  to  feel  the  oppression  of  the  long  j^auses  in  the  conversation ; 
and  looked  appealingly  to  her  sister  to  till  them  up.  Miss  Halcombe, 
after  once  or  twice  hesitating  and  checking  herself,  in  a  most  un- 
characteristic manner,  spoke  at  last. 

"  "  I  have  seen  your  uncle  this  morning,  Laura, '^  she  said.  "  He 
thinks  the  puiple  room  is  the  one  that  ought  to  be  got  ready ;  and 
he  confirms  what  I  told  you.     Monday  is  the  day — not  Tuesday." 

While  these  words  w^ere  being  spoken.  Miss  Fairlie  looked  down 
at  the  table  beneath  her.  Her  fingers  moved  nervously  among  the 
crumbs  that  were  scattered  on  the  cloth.  The  paleness  of  her  cheeks 
spread  to  her  lips,  and  the  lips  themselves  trembled  visibly.  I  was 
not  the  only  person  present  who  noticed  this.  Miss  Halcombe  saw 
it  too;  and  at  once  set  us  the  example  of  rising  from  table. 

Mrs.  Vesey  and  Miss  Fairlie  left  the  room  together.  The  kind 
sorrowful  blue  eyes  looked  at  nie,  for  a  moment,  with  the  prescient 
sadness  of  a  coming  and  a  long  farewell.  I  felt  the  answering  pang 
in  my  own  heart — the  pang  that  told  me  I  must  lose  her  soon,  and 
love  her  the  more  unchangeably  for  the  loss. 

I  turned  toward  the  garden  when  the  door  had  closed  on  her. 
Miss  Halcombe  was  standing  with  her  hat  in  her  hand,  and  her 
shawl  over  her  arm,  by  the  large  window  that  led  out  to  the  lawn, 
and  was  looking  at  me  attentively. 

"  Have  you  any  leisure  time  to  spare,"  she  asked,  "  before  you  be- 
gin to  work  in  your  own  room  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Miss  Halcombe.     I  have  always  time  at  your  service." 

"  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  in  private,  Mr.  Hartright.  Get  your 
hat  and  come  out  into  the  garden.  We  are  not  likely  to  be  disturbed 
there  at  this  hour  in  the  morning." 

As  we  stepped  out  on  to  the  lawn,  one  of  the  under-gardeners — a 
mere  lad — passed  us  on  his  way  to  the  house,  with  a  letter  in  his 
hand.     Miss  Halcombe  stopped  him. 

"  Is  that  letter  for  me  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Nay,  miss ;  it's  just  said  to  be  for  Miss  Fairlie,"  answered  the  lad, 
holding  out  the  letter  as  he  spoke. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  C3 

Miss  Halcombe  took  it  from  liim,  and  looked  at  the  address. 

"A  strange  liandvvn-iting,"  she  said  to  herself.  "Who  can  Laura's 
correspondent  be?  Where  did  you  get  this?"  she  continued,  ad- 
dressing the  gardener. 

"  Well,  miss,"  said  the  lad,  "  I  just  got  it  from  a  woman." 

'*  What  woman  ?" 

"  A  woman  well  stricken  in  age." 

"  Oh,  an  old  woman.     Any  one  you  knew  ?" 

"  I  canna'  tak'  it  on  mysel'  to  say  that  she  was  other  than  a  strangci 
to  me." 

"  Which  way  did  she  go  ?" 

"  That  gate,"  said  the  under-gardener,  turning  with  great  delibera- 
tion toward  the  south,  and  embracing  the  whole  of  that  part  of  En- 
gland with  one  comprehensive  sweep  of  his  ami. 

"  Curious,"  said  Miss  Halcombe ;  "  I  suppose  it  must  be  a  begging- 
letter.  There,"  she  added,  handing  the  letter  back  to  the  lad,  "  take 
it  to  the  house,  and  give  it  to  one  of  the  servants.  And  now,  Mr. 
Hartright,  if  you  have  no  objection,  let  us  walk  this  way." 

She  led  me  across  the  lawn,  along  the  same  path  by  which  I  had 
followed  her  on  the  day  after  my  arrival  at  Limmeridge.  At  the 
little  summer-house  in  which  Laura  Fairlie  and  I  had  first  seen  each 
other,  she  stopped,  and  broke  the  silence  which  she  had  steadily 
maintained  while  we  were  walking  together. 

"  What  I  have  to  say  to  you,  I  can  say  here." 

With  those  words  she  entered  the  summer-house,  took  one  of  the 
chairs  at  the  little  round  table  inside,  and  signed  to  me  to  take  the 
other.  I  suspected  what  was  coming  when  she  spoke  to  me  in  the 
1  )reakfast-room ;  I  felt  certain  of  it  now. 

"  Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  begin  by  making  a  frank 
avowal  to  you.  I  am  going  to  say — without  2)hrase-making,  which 
I  detest;  or  paying  compliments,  which  I  heartily  despise — that  I 
have  come,  in  the  course  of  your  residence  with  us,  to  feel  a  strong- 
friendly  regard  for  you,  I  was  predisposed  in  your  favor  when  you 
first  told  me  of  your  conduct  toward  that  unhappy  woman  whom  you 
met  under  such  remarkable  circumstances.  Your  management  of 
the  affair  might  not  have  been  prudent ;  but  it  showed  the  self-con- 
trol, the  delicacy,  and  the  compassion  of  a  man  who  was  naturally 
a  gentleman.  It  made  me  expect  good  things  from  you ;  and  you 
have  not  disappointed  my  expectations." 

She  paused — but  held  up  her  hand  at  the  same  time,  as  a  sign 
that  she  awaited  no  answer  from  me  before  she  proceeded.  When 
I  entered  the  summer-house,  no  thought  was  in  me  of  the  woman  in 
white.  But,  now.  Miss  Halcombe's  own  words  had  put  the  memory 
of  my  adventure  back  in  my  mind.  It  remained  there  throughout 
the  interview — remained,  and  not  without  a  result. 


\^ 


64  THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITE. 

"As  your  friend,''  she  proceeded,  "  I  am  going  to  tell  you  at  once, 
Jri  my  own  plain,  hlunt,  downright  language,  that  I  have  discovered 
your  secret — without  help  or  hint,  mind,  from  any  one  else.  Mr. 
Ilartright,  you  have  thoughtlessly  allowed  yourself  to  form  an  at- 
tachment— a  serious  and  devoted  attachment,  I  am  afraid — to  my 
sister,  Laura.  I  don't  put  you  to  the  pain  of  confessing  it,  in  so 
many  words,  because  I  see  and  know  that  you  are  too  honest  to  deny 
it.  I  don't  even  blame  you — I  pity  you  for  opening  your  heart  to  a 
hopeless  affection.  You  have  not  attempted  to  take  any  underhand 
advantage — you  have  not  spoken  to  my  sister  in  secret.  You  arc 
guilty  of  weakness  and  want  of  attention  to  your  own  best  interests, 
but  of  nothing  worse.  If  you  had  acted,  in  any  single  respect,  less 
delicately,  and  less  modestly,  I  should  have  told  you  to  leave  the 
house,  without  an  instant's  notice,  or  an  instant's  consultation  of  any 
])ody.  As  it  is,  I  blame  the  misfortune  of  your  years  and  your  posi- 
tion— I  don't  blame  you.  Shake  hands — I  have  given  you  pain ;  I 
am  going  to  give  you  more  ;  but  there  is  no  help  for  it — shake  hands 
with  your  friend,  Marian  Halcombe,  first.'' 

The  sudden  kindness — the  warm,  high-minded,  fearless  sympathy 
which  met  me  on  such  mercifully  equal  terms,  which  appealed  with 
such  delicate  and  generous  abruptness  straight  to  my  heart,  my  hon- 
or, and  my  courage,  overcame  me  in  an  instant.  I  tried  to  look  at 
her,  when  she  took  my  hand,  but  my  eyes  were  dim.  I  tried  to  thank 
her,  but  my  voice  failed  me. 

'•  Listen  to  me,"  she  said,  considerately  avoiding  all  notice  of  my 
loss  of  self-control.  "  Listen  to  me,  and  let  us  get  it  over  at  once. 
It  is  a  real  true  relief  to  me  that  I  am  not  obliged,  in  what  I  have 
now  to  say,  to  enter  into  the  question — the  hard  and  cruel  question 
as  I  think  it — of  social  inequalities.  Circumstances  which  will  try 
you  to  the  quick,  spare  me  the  ungracious  necessity  of  paining  a  man 
who  has  lived  in  friendly  intimacy  under  the  same  roof  with  myself 
by  any  humiliating  reference  to  matters  of  rank  and  station.  You 
must  leave  Limmeridga  House,  Mr.  Hartright,  before  more  harm  is 
done.  It  is  my  duty  to  say  that  to  you ;  and  it  would  be  equally  my 
duty  to  say  it,  under  precisely  the  same  serious  necessity,  if  you  were 
the  representative  of  the  oldest  and  wealthiest  family  in  England. 
You  must  leave  us,  not  because  you  are  a  teacher  of  drawing — " 

She  waited  a  moment ;  turned  her  face  full  on  me ;  and,  reaching 
across  the  table,  laid  her  hand  firmly  on  my  arm. 

"Not  because  you  are  a  teacher  of  drawing,"  she  repeated,  "but 
because  Laura  Fairlie  is  engaged  to  be  married.'' 

The  last  word  went  like  a  Ijullct  to  m\^heart.  3Iy  arm  lost  all 
sensation  of  the  hand  that  grasped  it.  I  never  moved  and  never 
spoke.  The  shaq)  autumn  breeze  that  scattered  the  dead  leaves  at 
our  feet,  came  as  cold  to  me,  on  a  sudden,  as  if  my  own  mad  hopes 


8HS  WAITED  A  MOMENT,   TURNED  HER    FACE    FULL    ON   ME,   AND,   REACHING 
ACROSS    THE    TAELE,   LAID    HER    HAND   FIRMLY    ON   MY   ARM. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WIHTE.  G7 

were  dead  leaves,  too,  \Yliirlcd  away  by  the  wind  like  the  rest. 
Hopes !  Betrothed,  or  not  betrothed,  she  was  equally  far  from  me. 
Would  other  men  have  remembered  that  in  my  place  ?  Not  if  they 
had  loved  her  as  I  did. 

The  i^ang  passed ;  and  nothing  but  the  dull  numbing  pain  of  it 
remained,  I  felt  Miss  Halcombe's  hand  again,  tightening  its  hold 
on  my  arm — I  raised  my  head,  and  looked  at  her.  Her  large  blar-k 
eyes  were  rooted  on  me,  watching  the  white  change  on  my  face,  which 
I  felt,  and  which  she  saw. 

"  Crush  it !''  she  said.  "  Here,  where  you  first  saw.  her,  crush  it  1 
Don't  shrink  under  it  like  a  woman.  Tear  it  out ;  trample  it  under 
foot  like  a  man  !'' 

The  suppressed  vehemence  with  which  she  spoke;  the  strength 
which  her  will — concentrated  in  the  :ook  she  fixed  on  me,  and  in 
the  hold  on  my  arm  that  she  had  not  yet  relinquished — communi- 
cated to  mine,  steadied  me.  We  both  waited  for  a  minute  in  silence. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  I  had  justified  her  generous  fiiith  in  my 
manhood;  I  had,  outwardly  at  least,  recovered  my  self-control. 

"Are  you  yourself  again  ?"' 

"  Enough  myself  Miss  Halcombe,  to  ask  your  pardon  and  hen?. 
Enough  myself,  to  he  guided  by  your  advice,  and  to  i^rove  my  grati- 
tude in  that  way,  if  I  can  prove  it  in  nc  other." 

"  You  have  proved  it  already,"  she  answered,  "  by  those  words, 
ilr.  Hartright,  concealment  is  at  an  end  between  us.  I  can  not  aflfect 
to  hide  from  you^  what  my  sister  has  unconsciously  shown  to  me. 
You  must  leave  us  for  her  sake,  as  well  as  for  your  own.  Your  pres- 
ence here,  your  necessary  intimacy  with  us,  harmless  as  it  has  been, 
God  knows,  in  all  other  respects,  has  unsteadied  her  and  made  her 
wretched.  I,  who  love  her  better  than  my  own  life — I,  who  have 
learned  to  believe  in  that  pure,  noble,  innocent  nature  as  I  believe 
in  my  religion — know  but  too  well  the  secret  misery  of  self-reproach 
that  she  has  been  suffering,  since  the  first  shadow  of  a  feeling  dis- 
loyal to  her  marriage  engagement  entered  her  heart  in  spite  of  her. 
I  don't  say — it  would  be  useless  to  attempt  to  say  it  after  what  has 
happened — that  her  engagement  has  ever  had  a  strong  hold  on  her 
affections.  It.  is  an  engagement,  of  honor j^  not  of  love — her  father 
sanctioned  it  on  his  death-bed,  two  years  since — she  herself  neither 
welcomed  it  nor  shrank  from  it — she  was  content  to  make  it.  Till 
you  came  here,  she  was  in  the  position  of  hundreds  of  other  women, 
who  marry  men  without  being  greatly  attracted  to  them  or  greatly 
repelled  by  them,  and  who  learn  to  love  tb.em  (when  they  don't  learn 
to  hate !)  after  marriage,  instead  of  before.  I  liope  more  earnestly 
than  words  can  say — and  you  should  have  the  self-sacrificing  cour- 
age to  hope  too — that  the  new  thoughts  and  feelings  v/hicli  have 
disturbed  the  old  calmness  and  the  old  content  have  not  taken  root 


68  TIIK.WOMAX    IN    WHITE. 

too  deeply  to  be  ever  removed.  Your  absence  (if  I  liad  less  belief 
in  your  honor,  and  your  courage,  and  your  sense,  I  should  not  trust 
to  them  as  I  am  trusting  nowj — your  absence  will  help  ray  efforts; 
and  time  will  help  us  all  three.  It  is  something  to  know  that  my 
first  contidence  in  you  was  not  all  misplaced.  It  is  something  to 
know  that  you  will  not  be  less  honest,  less  manly,  less  considerate 
toward  the  puj^il  whose  relation  to  yourself  you  have  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  forget,  than  toward  the  stranger  and  the  outcast  whose 
appeal  to  you  was  not  made  in  vain." 

Again  the  chance  reference  to  the  woman  in  white !  Was  there 
no  i)0ssibility  of  speaking  of  Miss  Fairlie  and  of  me  without  raising 
the  memory  of  Anne  Catherick,  and  setting  her  between  us  like  a 
fatality  that  it  Avas  hopeless  to  avoid  ? ; 

"  Tell  me  what  apology  I  can  make'to  Mr.  Fairlie  for  breaking  my 
engagement,"  I  said.  "  Tell  me  when  to  go  after  that  apology  is 
accei)ted.     I  j^romise  implicit  obedience  to  you  and  to  your  advice." 

"Time  is,  every  way,  of  importance,"  she  answered.  "You  heard 
me  refer  this  morning  to  Monday  next,  and  to  the  necessity  of  set- 
ting the  purple  room  in  order.  The  visitor  whom  we  expect  on 
3Ionday— " 

I  could  not  wait  for  her  to  be  more  explicit.  Knowing  what  I 
knew  novv,  the  memory  of  Miss  Fairlie's  look  and  manner  at  the 
breakfast-table  told  me  that  the  expected  visitor  at  Limmeridge 
House  was  her  future  husband.  I  tried  to  force  it  back ;  but  some- 
thing rose  within  me  at  that  moment  stronger  than  my  own  will; 
and  I  interrupted  Miss  Ilolcombe. 
-  "  Let  me  go  to-day,"  I  said,  bitterly.     "  The  sooner  the  better." 

"  Iso ;  not  to-day,"  she  replied.  "  The  only  reason  you  can  assign 
to  Mr.  Fairlie  for  your  departure,  before  the  end  of  your  engagement, 
must  be  that  an  unforeseen  necessity  compels  you  to  ask  his  permis- 
sion to  return  at  once  to  London.  You  must  wait  till  to-morrow  to 
tell  him  that,  at  the  time  when  the  post  comes  in,  because  he  will 
tlien  understand  the  sudden  change  in  your  j^lans,  by  associating  it 
with  the  arrival  of  a  letter  from  London.  It  is  miserable  and  sick- 
ening to  descend  to  deceit,  even  of  the  most  harmless  kind — but  I 
know  Mr.  Fairlie,  and  if  you  once  excite  his  suspicions  that  you  are 
trifling  with  him,  he  will  refuse  to  release  you.  Speak  to  him  on 
Friday  morning ;  occupy  yourself  afterward  (for  the  sake  of  your 
own  interests  with  your  employer),  in  leaving  your  unfinished  work 
in  as  little  confusion  as  possible ;  and  quit  this  jDlace  on  Saturday. 
It  will  be  time  enough  then,  Mr.  Ilartright,  for  you,  and  for  all  of  us." 

Before  I  could  assure  her  that  she  might  depend  on  my  acting  in 
the  strictest  accordance  with  her  wishes,  we  were  both  startled  by 
advancing  footsteps  in  the  shrubben^^  Some  one  was  coming  from 
the  house  to  seek  for  us !     I  felt  the  blood  rush  into  my  cheeks,  and 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITE.  69 

then  leave  tliem  again.  Could  the  third  i^erson  ^vho  was  fast  ap- 
proaching us,  at  such  a  time  and  under  such  circumstances,  be  Miss 
Fairlie  ?" 

It  was  a  relief — so  sadly,  so  hopelessly  was  my  position  toward 
her  changed  already — it  was  absolutely  a  relief  to  me,  when  the  per- 
son who  had  disturbed  us  appeared  at  the  entrance  of  the  summer- 
house,  and  proved  to  be  only  Miss  Fairlie's  maid. 

"  Could  I  speak  to  you  for  a  moment,  miss?"  said  the  girl,  in  rather 
a  flurried,  unsettled  manner. 

Miss  Ilalcombe  descended  the  steps  into  the  shrubbery,  and  walk- 
ed aside  a  few  paces  with  the  maid. 

Left  by  myself,  my  mind  reverted,  with  a  sense  of  forlorn  wretched- 
ness which  it  is  not  in  any  words  that  I  can  find  to  describe,  to  my 
approaching  return  to  the  solitude  and  the  despair  of  my  lonely  Lon- 
don home.  Thoughts  of  my  kind  old  mother,  and  of  my  sister,  who 
had  rejoiced  with  her  so  innocently  over  my  prospects  in  Cumber- 
land— thoughts  whose  long  banishment  from  my  heart  it  was  noAv 
my  shame  and  my  rej^roach  to  realize  for  the  first  time — came  back 
to  me  with  the  loving  mournfulness  of  old,  neglected  friends.  My 
mother  and  my  sister,  what  would  they  feel  when  I  returned  to  them 
from  my  broken  engagement,  with  the  confession  of  my  miserable 
secret — they  who  had  jDarted  from  me  so  hopefully  on  that  last  hap- 
py night  in  the  Hami^stead  cottage ! 

Anne  Catherick  again  !  Even  the  memory  of  the  farewell  evening 
with  my  mother  and  my  sister  could  not  return  to  me  now,  uncon- 
nected with  that  other  memory  of  the  moonlight  vralk  back  to  Lon- 
don. What  did  it  mean  ?  Were  that  woman  and  I  to  meet  once 
more  ?  It  was  possible,  at  the  least.  Did  she  know  that  I  lived  in 
London  ?  Yes ;  I  had  told  her  so,  either  before  or  after  that  strange 
question  of  hers,  when  she  had  asked  me  so  distrustfully  if  I  knew 
many  men  of  the  rank  of  Baronet.  Either  before  or  after — my  mind 
was  not  calm  enough,  then,  to  remember  which. 

A  few  minutes  elapsed  before  Miss  Halcombe  dismissed  the  maid 
and  came  back  to  me.     She,  too,  looked  flurried  and  unsettled  now. 

"  We  have  arranged  all  that  is  necessary,  Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said. 
*'  We  have  understood  each  other,  as  friends  should ;  and  we  may  go 
back  at  once  to  the  house.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  am  uneasy  about 
Laura.  She  has  sent  to  say  she  wants  to  see  me  directly;  and  the 
maid  reports  that  her  mistress  is  apparently  very  much  agitated  by 
a  letter  that  she  has  received  this  morning  —  the  same  letter,  no 
doubt,  which  I  sent  on  to  the  house  before  we  came  here." 

We  retraced  our  steps  together  hastily  along  the  shrubbcn,^  path. 
Although  Miss  Ilalcombe  had  ended  all  that  she  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  say  on  her  side,  I  had  not  ended  all  that  I  wanted  to  say  on 
mine.     From  the  moment  when  I  had  discovered  that  the  expected 


70  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

visitor  at  Limmeridfre  was  Miss  Fairlie's  future  Imsband,  I  had  felt 
a  bitter  curiosity,  a  burning  envious  eagerness,  to  know  who  lie  was. 
It  was  possible  that  a  future  opi^ortunity  of  putting  the  question 
might  not  easily  offer ;  so  I  risked  asking  it  on  our  way  back  to  the 
bouse. 

"  Now  that  you  are  kind  enough  to  tell  me  we  have  understood 
each  other.  Miss  Halcombe,"  I  said ;  "  now  that  you  are  sure  of  my 
gratitude  for  your  forbearance  and  my  obedience  to  your  wishes,  may 
I  venture  to  ask  who" — (I  hesitated;  I  had  forced  myself  to  think 
of  him,  but  it  was  harder  still  to  sjDcak  of  him,  as  her  promised  hus- 
band)— "  who  the  gentleman  engaged  to  Miss  Fairlie  is  V 

Her  mind  was  evidently  occupied  with  the- message  she  had  re- 
ceived from  her  sister.     She  answered,  in  a  hasty,  absent  way  : 

'•A  gentleman  of  large  property,  in  Hampshire."' 
;  Hampshire  !    Anne  Catherick's  native  place.    Again,  and  yet  again, 
^he  woman  in  white.     There  icas  a  fatality  in  it, 

"And  his  name  ?''  I  said,  as  quietly  and  indifferentlv  as  I  could. 

"  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

/       Sir  —  Sir  Percival  I  Anne  Catherick's  question  —  that  suspicious 

/    question  about  the  men  of  the  rank  of  Baronet  whom  I  might  hap- 

/     pen  to  know — had  hardly  been  dismissed  from  my  mind  by  Miss 

/      Halcombe's  return  to  me  in  the  summer-house,  before  it  was  recalled 

again  by  her  own  answer.     I  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Sir  Percival  Glyde,"  she  repeated,  imagining  that  I  had  not 
heard  her  former  reply. 

"  Knight,  or  Baronet  V  I  asked,  with  an  agitation  that  I  could 
hide  no  longer. 

She  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  answered,  rather  coldly : 

"  Baronet,  of  course.'' 

"^  XI. 

Not  a  word  more  was  said,  on  either  side,  as  we  walked  back  to 
the  house.  j\Iiss  Halcombe  hastened  immediately  to  her  sister's 
room ;  and  I  withdrew  to  my  studio  to  set  in  order  all  of  Mr.  Fair- 
lie's  drawings  that  I  had  not  yet  mounted  and  restored  before  I  re- 
signed them  to  the  care  of  other  hands.  Thoughts  that  I  had  hith- 
erto restrained,  thoughts  that  made  my  position  harder  than  ever  to 
endure,  crowded  on  me,  now  that  I  was  alone. 

She  was  engaged  to  be  married ;  and  her  future  husband  was  Sir 
Percival  Glyde.  A  man  of  the  rank  of  baronet,  and  the  owner  of 
property  in  Hampshire. 

There  were  hundreds  of  baronets  in  England,  and  dozens  of  land- 
owners in  Hampshire.  Judging  by  the  ordinary  rules  of  evidence,  I 
had  not  the  shadow  of  a  reason,  thus  far,  for  connecting  Sir  Percival 
Glyde  with  the  suspicious  words  of  inquiry  that  had  Ijecn  spoken  to 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  71 

me  by  tlic  woman  in  wliite.  And  yet,  I  did  connect  liim  with  them. 
Was  it  because  he  had  now  become  associated  in  my  mind  with  Miss 
Fairlie ;  Miss  Fairlie  being,  in  her  turn,  associated  with  Anne  Cather- 
ick,  since  the  night  when  I  had  discovered  the  ominous  likeness  be- 
tween them  ?  Had  the  events  of  the  morning  so  unnerved  me  al- 
ready that  I  was  at  the  mercy  of  any  delusion  which  common  chances 
and  common  coincidences  might  suggest  to  my  imagination  ?  Im- 
possible to  say.  I  could  only  feel  that  what  had  jjassed  between 
Miss  Halcombe  and  myself,  on  our  way  from  the  summer-house,  had 
affected  me  very  strangely.  The  foreboding  of  some  undiscoverablc 
danger  lying  hid  from  us  all  in  the  darkness  of  the  future,  was 
strong  on  me.  The  doubt  whether  I  was  not  linked  already  to  a 
chain  of  events  which  even  my  approaching  departure  from  Cum- 
berland would  be  powerless  to  snap  asunder — the  doubt  whether  we 
any  of  us  saw  the  end  as  the  end  would  really  be — gathered  more 
and  more  darkly  over  my  mind.  Poignant  as  it  was,  the  sense  of 
suffering  caused  by  the  miserable  end  of  my  brief,  presumptuous 
love,  seemed  to  be  blunted  and  deadened  by  the  still  stronger  sense 
of  something  obscurely  imiDcnding,  something  invisibly  threatening, 
that  Time  was  holding  over  our  heads. 

I  had  been  engaged  with  the  drawings  little  more  than  half  an 
hour,  when  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  It  opened,  on  my  an- 
swering ;  and,  to  my  surprise,  Miss  Halcombe  entered  the  room. 

Her  manner  was  angry  and  agitated.  She  caught  up  a  chair  for 
herself,  before  I  could  give  her  one ;  and  sat  down  in  it,  close  at  my 
side. 

"Mr.  Hartright,"  she  said,  "I  had  hoj^ed  that  all  painful  subjects 
of  conversation  werC/i^xhausted  between  us,  for  to-day  at  least.  But 
it  is  not  to  be  so.  There  is  some  underhand  villainy  at  work  to 
frighten  my  sister  about  her  approaching  marriage:  You  saw  me 
send  the  gardener  on  to  the  house,  with  a  letter  addressed,  in  a 
strange  handwriting,  to  Miss  Fairlie  V 

"  Certainly."" 

"  The  letter  is  an  anonymous  letter — a  vile  attempt  to  injure  Sir 
Percival  Glyde  in  my  sisters  estimation.  It  has  so  agitated  and 
alarmed  her  that  I  have  had  the  greatest  possible  difficulty  in  com- 
posing her  spirits  sufficiently  to  allow  me  to  leave  her  room  and 
come  here.  I  know  this  is  a  family  matter  on  which  I  ought  not  to 
consult  you,  and  in  which  you  can  feel  no  concern  or  interest — " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Halcombe.  I  feel  the  strongest  possible 
concern  and  interest  in  any  thing  that  affects  Miss  Fairlie's  happiness 
or  yours." 

''  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  You  are  the  only  person  in  the 
house,  or  out  of  it,  who  can  advise  me.  Mr.  Fairlie,  in  his  state  of 
health  and  with  his  horror  of  difficulties  and  m^'steries  of  all  kinds, 


72  THE    AVO.MAN    IN    ^VIHTE. 

is  not  to  be  tliouglit  of.  The  clergyman  is  a  good,  weak  man,  wlio 
knows  nothing  out  of  tlie  routine  of  his  duties;  and  our  neighbors 
arc  just  the  sort  of  comfortable,  jog-trot  acquaintances  whom  one 
can  not  disturb  in  times  of  trouble  and  danger.  What  I  want  to 
know  is  this :  ought  I,  at  once,  to  take  such  steps  as  I  can  to  dis- 
cover the  WTiter  of  the  letter  ?  or  ought  I  to  wait,  and  apply  to  Mr. 
Fairlie's  legal  adviser  to-morrow  ?  It  is  a  question — perhaps  a  veiy 
important  one — of  gaining  or  losing  a  day.  Tell  me  what  you  think. 
Mr.  Ilartright.  If  necessity  had  not  already  obliged  me  to  take  you 
into  my  confidence  under  very  delicate  circumstances,  even  my  help- 
less situation  would,  perhaps,  be  no  excuse  for  me.  But,  as  things 
are,  I  can  not  surely  be  wrong,  after  all  that  has  passed  between  us, 
in  forgetting  that  you  are  a  friend  of  only  three  months'  standing." 

She  gave  me  the  letter.  It  began  abruptly,  without  any  i^relimi- 
nary  form  of  address,  as  follows : 

"  Do  you  believe  in  dreams  ?  I  hope,  for  your  o'^-n  sake,  that  you 
do.  See  what  Scripture  says  about  dreams  and  their  fultillraent 
(Genesis  xl.,  8,,  xli.,  25  ;  Daniel  iv.,  18-25) ;  and  take  the  warning  1 
send  you  before  it  is  too  late. 

"  Last  night,  I  dreamed  about  you.  Miss  Fairlie.  I  dreamed  that 
I  was  standing  inside  the  communion  rails  of  a  church :  I  on  one 
side  of  the  altar-table,  and  the  clergyman,  with  his  surplice  and  hi? 
prayer-book,  on  the  other. 

"After  a  time,  there  walked  toward  us,  down  the  aisle  of  the 
church,  a  man  and  a  woman,  coming  to  be  married.  You  were  the 
woman.  You  looked  so  pretty  and  innocent  in  your  beautiful  white 
silk  dress,  and  your  long  Avhite  lace  veil,  that  my  heart  felt  for  you 
and  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes. 

"They  were  tears  of  jnty,  young  lady,  that  Heaven  blesses;  and. 
instead  of  falling  from  my  eyes  like  the  every-day  tears  that  we  alf 
of  us  shed,  they  turned  into  two  rays  of  light  which  slanted  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  man  standing  at  the  altar  with  you,  till  they 
touched  his  breast.  The  two  rays  sprang  in  arches  like  two  rain- 
bows, between  me  and  him.  I  looked  along  them  ;  and  I  saw  down 
into  his  inmost  heart. 

"The  outside  of  the  man  you  were  man-ying  was  fair  enough  to 
see.  He  was  neither  tall  nor  short — he  Avas  a  little  below  the  mid- 
dle size.  A  light,  active,  high-spirited  man — about  five-and-forty 
years  old,  to  look  at.  lie  had  a  pale  face,  and  was  bald  over  the 
forehead,  but  had  dark  hair  on  the  rest  of  his  head.  His  beard  was 
shaven  on  his  chin,  l)ut  was  let  to  grow,  of  a  fine  rich  brown,  on  his 
cheeks  and  his  ui)pcr  lip.  His  eyes  were  brown  too,  and  ven,'  Inight ; 
his  nose  straight  and  handsome,  and  delicate  enough  to  have  done 
for  a  woman's.     His  hands  the  same.     He  was  troubled  from  tiuic 


TI!E    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  73 

to  time  with  a  dry  hacking  cough ;  and  when  he  put  up  his  white 
right  hand  to  his  mouth,  he  showed  the  red  scar  of  an  old  wound 
across  the  back  of  it.  Have  I  dreamed  of  the  right  man  ?  You 
know  best,  Miss  Fairlie ;  and  you  can  say  if  I  was  deceived  or  not. 
Read,  next,  what  I  saw  beneath  the  outside — I  entreat  you,  read, 
and  profit 

"  I  looked  along  the  two  rays  of  light ;  and  I  saw"  down  into  his 
inmost  heart.  It  was  black  as  night ;  and  on  it  were  written,  in  the 
red  flaming  letters  which  are  the  handwriting  of  the  fallen  angel : 
*  Without  pity  and  without  remorse.  He  has  strewn  with  misery 
the  paths  of  others,  and  he  will  live  to  strew  with  misery  the  path 
of  this  woman  by  his  side,'  I  read  that ;  and  then  the  rays  of  light 
shifted  and  pointed  over  his  shoulder;  and  there,  behind  him,  stood 
a  fiend,  laughing.  And  the  rays  of  light  shifted  once  more,  and 
pointed  over  your  shoulder ;  and  there,  behind  you,  stoo<:l  an  angel 
weeping.  And  the  rays  of  light  shifted  for  the  third  time,  and 
p>ointed  straight  between  you  and  that  man.  They  widened  and 
widened,  thrusting  you  both  asunder,  one  from  the  other.  And  the 
clergyman  looked  for  the  marriage-service  in  vain :  it  was  gone  out 
of  the  book,  and  he  shut  up  the  leaves,  and  put  it  from  him  in  de- 
spair. And  I  woke  with  my  eyes  full  of  tears  and  my  heart  beating 
— for  I  believe  in  dreams. 

"  Believe,  too,  Miss  Fahlie — I  beg  of  you,  for  your  own  sake,  be- 
lieve as  I  do.  Joseijli  and  Daniel,  and  others  in  Scrij^ture,  believed 
in  dreams.  Inquire  into  the  past  life  of  that  man  with  the  scar  on 
his  hand,  before  you  say  the  words  that  make  you  his  miserable 
wife.  I  don't  give  you  this  warning  on  my  account,  but  on  yours. 
I  have  an  interest  in  your  well-being  that  will  live  as  long  as  I  draw 
breath.  vYour  mother's  daughter  has  a  tender  place  in  my  heart — 
for  your  mother  was  my  first,  my  best,  my  only  friend.'^ 

There,  the  extraordinary  letter  ended,  without  signature  of  any  sort. 

The  handwriting  afforded  no  prospect  of  a  clue.  It  was  traced  on 
ruled  lines,  in  the  cramped,  conventional,  copy-book  character,  tech- 
nically termed  "  small  hand.''  It  was  feeble  and  faint,  and  defaced 
by  blots,  but  had  otherwise  nothing  to  distinguish  it. 

"  That  is  not  an  illiterate  letter,"  said  Miss  Halcombe, "  and,  at  the 
same  time,  it  is  surely  too  incoherent  to  be  the  letter  of  an  educated 
person  in  the  higher  ranks  of  life.  The  reference  to  the  bridal  dress 
and  veil,  and  other  little  expenses,  seem  to  point  to  it  as  the  produc- 
tion of  someworoan.     What  do  yon  think,  Mr.  Hartright?" 

"  I  think  so  too.  It  seems  to  me  to  be  not  only  the  letter  of  a 
woman,  but  of  a  woman  whose  mind  must  be-—"' 

"  Deranged  'r  suggested  Miss  Halcombe.  "  It  struck  me  in  that 
light,  too." 

4 


74  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

I  did  not  answer.  "While  I  was  speaking,  my  eyes  rested  on  the 
last  sentence  of  the  letter :  ''  Your  mother's  daughter  has  a  tender 
place  in  my  heart — for  your  mother  was  my  first,  my  best,  my  only 
friend."  Those  words  and  the  doubt  which  had  just  escaped  me  as 
to  the  sanity  of  the  writer  of  the  letter,  acting  together  on  my  mind, 
suggested  an  idea,  whicli  I  was  literally  afraid  to  express  openly,  or 
even  to  encourage  secretly.  I  began  to  doubt  whether  my  own  fac- 
ulties were  not  in  danger  of  losing  their  balance.  It  seemed  almost 
like  a  monomania  to  be  tracing  back  every  thing  strange  that  hap- 
pened, every  thing  unexpected  that  was  said,  always  to  the  same 
hidden  source  and  the  same  sinister  influence.  I  resolved,  this  time, 
in  defense  of  my  own  courage  and  my  own  sense,  to  come  to  no  de- 
cision that  plain  fact  did  not  warrant,  and  to  turn  my  back  resolute- 
ly on  every  thing  that  tempted  me  in  the  shape  of  surmise. 

"  If  we  have  any  chance  of  tracing  the  person  who  has  written 
this,"  I  said,  returning  the  letter  to  Miss  Halcombe,  "  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  seizing  our  opportunity  the  moment  it  offers.  I  think  we 
ought  to  speak  to  the  gardener  again  about  the  elderly  woman  who 
gave  him  the  letter,  and  then  to  continue  our  inquiries  in  the  village. 
But  first  let  me  ask  a  question.  You  mentioned  just  now  the  alter- 
native of  consulting  Mr.  Fairlie's  legal  adviser  to-morroAv.  Is  there 
no  possibility  of  communicating  with  him  earlier  ?    Why  not  to-day  ?" 

"  I  can  only  explain,"  replied  Miss  Halcombe,  by  entering  into 
certain  particulars,  connected  with  my  sister's  marriage  engagement, 
which  I  did  not  think  it  necessary  or  desirable  to  mention  to  you 
this  morning.  One  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde's  objects  in  coming  here, 
on  Monday,  is  to  fix  the  period  of  his  marriage,  whicli  has  hitherto 
been  left  quite  unsettled.  He  is  anxious  that  the  event  should  take 
place  before  the  end  of  the  year." 

"  Does  Miss  Fairlie  know  of  that  wish  ?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"  She  has  no  suspicion  of  it ;  and,  after  what  has  happened,  I  shall 
not  take  the  responsibility  upon  myself  of  enlightening  her.  Sir 
Percival  has  only  mentioned  his  views  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  who  has  told 
me  himself  that  he  is  ready  and  anxious,  as  Laura's  guardian,  to  for- 
ward them.  He  has  written  to  London,  to  the  family  solicitor,  Mr. 
Gilmore.  Mr.  Gilmorc  happens  to  be  away  in  Glasgow^  on  business; 
and  he  has  replied  by  proposing  to  stop  at  Limmeridge  House,  on 
his  way  back  to  town.  He  will  arrive  to-morrow,  and  will  stay  with 
us  a  few  days,  so  as  to  allow  Sir  Percival  time  to  plead  his  own  cause. 
If  he  succeeds,  Mr.  Gilmore  will  then  return  to  London,  taking  with 
him  his  instructions  for  my  sister's  marriage-settlement.  You  under- 
stand now,  Mr.  Hartright,  why  I  speak  of  waiting  to  take  legal  ad- 
vice until  to-morrow  ?  Mr.  Gilmore  is  the  old  and  tried  friend  of 
two  generations  of  Fairlies ;  and  we  can  trust  him,  as  we  could  trust 
no  one  else." 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  75 

The  marriage-settlement!  The  mere  hearing  of  those  two  words 
stung  me  with  a  jealous  despair  that  was  poison  to  my  higher  and 
better  instincts.  I  began  to  think — it  is  hard  to  confess  this,  but  I 
must  suppress  nothing  from  beginning  to  end  of  the  terrible  story 
that  I  now  stand  committed  to  reveal  —  I  began  to  think,  with  a 
hateful  eagerness  of  hope,  of  the  vague  charges  against  Sir  Pcrcival 
Glyde  Avhich  the  anonymous  letter  contained.  What  if  those  wild 
accusations  rested  on  a  foundation  of  truth  ?  What  if  their  trath 
could  be  proved  before  the  fatal  words  of  consent  were  spoken,  and 
the  marriage-settlement  was  drawn?  I  have  tried  to  think,  since, 
that  the  feeling  which  then  animated  me  began  and  ended  in  pure 
devotion  to  Miss  Fairlie's  interests.  But  I  have  never  succeeded  in 
deceiving  myself  into  believing  it ;  and  I  must  not  now  attempt  to 
deceive  others.  The  feeling  began  and  ended  in  reckless,  vindic- 
tive, hopeless  hatred  of  the  man  who  was  to  marry  her. 

"If  we  are  to  find  out  any  thing,"  I  said,  speaking  under  the  new 
influence  which  was  now  directing  me,  "  we  had  better  not  let  an- 
other minute  slip  by  us  unemployed.  I  can  only  suggest,  once  more, 
the  projDriety  of  questioning  the  gardener  a  second  time,  and  of  in- 
quiring in  the  village  immediately  afterw^ard." 

"  I  think  I  may  be  of  help  to  you  in  both  cases,"  said  Miss  Hal- 
combe,  rising.  "  Let  us  go,  Mr.  Hartright,  at  once,  and  do  the  best 
we  can  together." 

I  had  the  door  in  my  hand  to  open  it  for  her — but  I  stopped,  on 
a  sudden,  to  ask  an  important  question  before  we  set  forth. 

"  One  of  the  paragraphs  of  the  anonymous  letter,"  I  said,  "  contains 
some  sentences  of  minute  personal  description.  Sir  Percival  Glyde's 
name  is  not  mentioned,  I  know — but  does  that  description  at  all  re- 
semble him  ?" 

"Accurately;  even  in  stating  his  age  to  be  forty-five — " 

Forty-five ;  and  she  M^as  not  yet  twenty-one  !  Men  of  his  age  mar- 
ried wives  of  her  age  every  day :  and  experience  had  shown  those 
marriages  to  be  often  the  happiest  ones.  I  knew  that — and  yet  even 
the  mention  of  his  age,  when  I  contrasted  it  with  hers,  added  to  my 
blind  hatred  and  distrust  of  him. 

" Accurately,"  Miss  Halcombe  continued,  "even  to  the  scar  on  his 
right  hand,  which  is  the  scar  of  a  wound  that  he  received  years  since 
when  he  was  traveling  in  Italy.  (There  can  be  no  doubt  that  eveiy 
peculiarity  of  his  personal  appearance  is  thoroughly  well  known  to 
the  writer  of  the  letter.'^ 

"  Even  a  cough  that  he  is  troubled  with  is  mentioned,  if  I  remem- 
ber right  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  mentioned  correctly.  He  treats  it  lightly  himself,  though 
it  sometimes  makes  his  friends  anxious  about  him." 

"  I  suppose  no  whispers  have  ever  been  heard  against  his  character  ?" 


76  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Mr.  nartn!j:lit !  I  liope  you  arc  not  unjust  enough  to  let  that  in- 
famous letter  influence  you  V 

I  felt  the  blood  rush  into  my  cheeks,  for  I  knew  that  it  had  in- 
fluenced me. 

"  I  hope  not,"  I  answered,  confusedly.  "  Perhaps  I  had  no  right 
to  ask  the  question." 

'- 1  am  not  sorry  you  asked  it,"  she  said,  "  for  it  enables  me  to  do 
justice  to  Sir  PercivaFs  reputation.  Not  a  Avhisper,  Mr.  Hartright, 
has  ever  reached  me,  or  my  family,  against  him.  He  has  fought  suc- 
cessfully two  contested  elections,  and  has  come  out  of  the  ordeal 
unscathed.  A  man  who  can  ilo  that,  in  England,  is  a  man  whose 
character  is  established." 

I  opened  the  door  for  her  in  silence,  and  followed  her  out.  She 
had  not  convinced  me.  If  the  recording  angel  had  come  down  from 
heaven  to  confirm  her,  and  had  oi)ened  his  book  to  my  mortal  eyes, 
fhe  recording  angel  would  not  have  convinced  me. 

We  found  the  gardener  at  w^ork  as  usual.  No  amount  of  question- 
ing could  extract  a  single  answer  of  any  importance  from  the  lad's 
impenetrable  stupidity.  The  woman  who  had  given  him  the  letter 
was  an  e^lcrly  woman ;  she  had  not  spoken  a  word  to  him ;  and 
she  had  gone  away  toward  the  south  in  a  great  hurry.  That  was 
all  the  gardener  could  tell  us. 

The  village  lay  southward  of  the  house.  So  to  the  village  we 
went  next, 

XII. 

Our  inquiries  at  Limmeridge  were  patiently  pursued  in  all  direc- 
tions, and  among  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  people.  B  .'  nothing 
came  of  them.  Three  of  the  villagers  did  certainly  assure  us  that 
they  had  seen  the  woman ;  but  as  they  were  quite  unable  to  describe 
her,  and  quite  incapaljle  of  agreeing  about  the  exact  direction  in 
which  she  was  proceeding  when  they  last  saw  her,  these  three  bright 
exceptions  to  the  general  rule  of  total  ignorance  afforded  no  more 
real  assistance  to  us  than  the  mass  of  their  unhelpful  and  unobserv- 
ant neighbors. 

The  course  of  our  useless  invesjigations  brought  us,  in  time,  to  the 
end  of  the  village  at  which  the(  schools  established  by  Mrs.  Fairlie 
"were  situated^  As  we  passed  the  side  of  the  building  appropriated 
to  the  use  of  the  boys,  I  suggested  the  propriety  of  making  a  last  in- 
quiry of  the  school-master,  whom  we  might  presume  to  be,  in  virtue 
of  his  office,  the  most  intelligent  man  in  the  place. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  school-master  must  have  been  occupied  with  his 
scholars,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  ''just  at  the  time  when  the  woman 
passed  through  the  village,  and  returned  again.  However  we  can 
but  try  " 


THE    AVOMAX   IX    WHITE.  77 

Wc  entered  the  play-groimd  inclosure,  and  walked  by  tiie  school- 
room window,  to  get  round  to  the  door,  which  was  situated  at  the 
back  of  the  building.  I  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  window  and 
looked  in. 

The  school-master  was  sitting  at  his  high  desk,  with  his  back  to 
me,  apparently  haranguing  the  pupils,  who  were  all  gathered  togeth- 
er in  front  of  him,  with  one  exception.  The  one  exception  was  a 
sturdy  white-headed  boy,  standing  apart  from  all  the  rest  on  a  stool 
in  a  corner — a  forlorn  little  Crusoe,  isolated  in  his  own  desert  island 
of  solitary  penal  disgrace. 

The  door,  when  we  got  round  to  it,  \Tas  ajar;  and  the  school-mas- 
ter's voice  reached  us  plainly,  as  we  both  stopped  for  a  minute  under 
the  porch. 

'•  Now,  boys,"  said  the  voice,  '•  mind  what  I  tell  you.  If  I  hear 
another  word  spoken  about  ghosts  in  this  school,  it  will  be  the  worst 
for  all  of  you.  There  are  no  such  things  as  ghosts ;  and,  therefore, 
any  boy  who  believes  in  ghosts  belie-^s  in  what  can't  possibly  be; 
and  a  boy  who  belongs  to  Limmeridge  School,  and  believes  in  what 
can't  possibly  be,  sets  up  his  back  against  reason  and  discipline,  and 
must  be  i3unished  accordingly.  You  all  see  Jacob  Postlethwaite 
standing  up  on  the  stool  there  in  disgrace.  He  has  been  punished, 
not  because  he  said  he  saw  a  ghost  last  night,  but  because  he  is  too 
impudent  and  too  obstinate  to  listen  to  reason;  and  because  he  per- 
sists in  saying  he  saw  the  ghost  after  I  have  told  him  that  no  such 
thing  can  possibly  be.  If  nothing  else  will  do,  I  mean  to  cane  the 
ghost  out  of  Jacob  Postlethwaite;  and  if  the  thing  spreads  among 
any  of  the  rest  of  you,  I  mean  to  go  a  step  farther,  and  cane  the 
ghost  out  of  the  whole  school." 

'•  We  seem  to  have  chosen  an  awkward  moment  for  our  visit,-' 
said  Miss  Halcombe,  pushing  open  the  door,  at  the  end  of  the  school 
master's  address,  and  leading  the  way  in. 

Our  appearance  produced  a  strong  sensation  among  the  boys. 
They  appeared  to  think  that  we  had  arrived  for  the  express  purj^cse 
of  seeing  Jacob  Postlethwaite  caned. 

"  Go  home  all  of  you  to  dinner,"'  said  the  school-master,  "  except 
Jacob.  Jacob  must  stop  where  he  is ;  and  the  ghost  may  bring  liim 
his  dinner,  if  the  ghost  pleases." 

Jacob's  fortitude  deserted  him  at  the  double  disappearance  of  his 
school-fellows  and  his  prospect  of  dinner.  He  took  his  hands  out 
of  his  pockets,  looked  hard  at  his  knuckles,  raised  them  with  great 
deliberation  to  his  eyes,  and,  when  they  got  there,  ground  them 
round  and  round  slowly,  accompanying  the  action  by  short  spasms 
of  sniffing,  which  followed  each  other  at  regular  intervals — the  nasal 
minute-guns  of  juvenile  distress. 

"  We  came  here  to  ask  you  a  question,  Mr.  Dempster,"  said  IMiss 


78  THE    WOMAN    IN   AVIIITK. 

Ilalcombe,  addressing  the  school-master ;  "  and  we  little  expected 
to  find  you  occui)icd  in  exorcising  a  ghost.  What  does  it  all  mean  ? 
"What  has  really  happened  ?" 

"  That  wicked  boy  has  been  fiightening  the  whole  school,  Miss 
Ilalcombe,  by  declaring  that  he  saw  a  ghost  yesterday  evening,"  an- 
swered the  master.  "And  he  still  persists  in  his  absurd  story,  in 
spite  of  all  that  I  can  say  to  him." 

"Most  extraordinary,"  said  Miss  Halcombe.  "I  should  not  have 
thought  it  possible  that  any  of  the  boys  had  imagination  enough  to 
see  a  ghost.  This  is  a  new  accession  indeed  to  the  hard  labor  of 
forming  the  youthful  mind  at  Limmeridge — and  I  heartily  wish  you 
well  through  it,  Mr.  Dempster.  In  the  mean  time,  let  n\e  explain 
why  you  see  me  here,  and  what  it  is  I  want." 

She  then  put  the  same  question  to  the  school-master  which  we 
had  asked  already  of  almost  every  one  else  in  the  village.  It  was 
met  by  the  same  discouraging  answer.  Mr.  Dempster  had  not  set 
eyes  on  the  stranger  of  whom  we  were  in  search. 

"  We  may  as  well  return  to  the  house,  Mr.  Hartright,"  said 
Miss  Halcombe ;  "  the  information  we  want  is  evidently  not  to  be 
found." 

She  had  bowed  to  Mr.  Dempster,  and  was  about  to  leave  the 
school-room,  when  the  forlorn  position  of  Jacob  Postlethwaite,  jDite- 
ously  sniffing  on  the  stool  of  penitence,  attracted  her  attention  as 
she  passed  him,  and  made  her  stop  good-humoredly  to  sj^eak  a  word 
to  the  little  prisoner  before  she  opened  the  door. 

"  You  foolish  boy,"  she  said,  "  why  don't  you  beg  Mr.  Dempster's 
pardon,  and  hold  your  tongue  about  the  ghost  ?" 

"  Eh  I — but  I  saw  t'  ghaist,"  persisted  Jacob  Postlethwaite,  with  a 
stare  of  terror  and  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !  You  saw  nothing  of  the  kind.  Ghost  in- 
deed !     Wliat  ghost—" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss  Halcombe,"  intei-posed  the  school-mas- 
ter, a  little  uneasily — "  but  I  think  you  had  better  not  question  the 
boy.  The  obstinate  folly  of  his  story  is  beyond  all  Ijclicf;  and  you 
might  lead  him  into  ignoranth' — " 

"Ignoranth',  what?"  inquired  Miss  Halcombe,  shari^h-. 

"Ignorantly  shocking  your  feelings,"  said  Mr.  Dempster,  looking 
very  much  discomposed. 

"  Upon  my  Avord,  Mr.  Dempster,  you  pay  my  feelings  a  great  com- 
pliment in  thinking  them  weak  enough  to  be  shocked  by  such  an 
urchin  as  that !"  She  turned  with  an  air  of  satirical  defiance  to  lit- 
tle Jacob,  and  began  to  question  him  directly.  "  Come  !"  she  said ; 
"  I  mean  to  know  all  about  this.  You  naughty  boy.  when  did  you 
see  the  ghost  ?" 

"  Yester'een,  at  the  gloaming,"  replied  Jacob. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITE.  V9 

"Oh  I  you  saw  it  yesterday  evening,  in  the  twilight?  And  what 
was  it  like  ?" 

"  Aii  in  white — as  a  ghaist  should  be,"  answered  the  ghost-seer, 
with  a  confidence  beyond  his  yeai-s. 

"And  where  was  it ?" 

"  Away  yander,  in  V  kirk-yard — where  a  ghaist  ought  to  be." 

"As  a  'ghaist'  should  be — where  a  'ghaist'  ought  to  be — why, 
you  little  fool,  you  talk  as  if  the  manners  and  customs  of  ghosts  had 
been  familiar  to  you  from  your  infancy !  You  have  got  your  story 
at  your  fingers'  ends,  at  any  rate.  I  suppose  I  shall  hear  next  that 
y«u  can  actually  tell  me  whose  ghost  it  was  V 

"  Eh  I  but  I  just  can,"  replied  Jacob,  nodding  his  head  with  an  air 
of  gloomy  triumph. 

Mr.  Dempster  had  already  tried  several  times  to  speak,  while  Miss 
Ilalcombe  was  examining  his  pupil ;  and  he  now  interposed  reso- 
lutely enough  to  make  himself  heard. 

"  Excuse  me,  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said, "  if  1  venture  to  say  that 
you  are  only  encouraging  the  boy  by  asking  him  these  questions." 

,"  I  w^ill  merely  ask  one  more,  Mr.  Dempster,  and  then  I  shall  be 
quite  satisfied.  Well,"  she  continued,  turning  to  the  boy,  "  and 
whose  ghost  was  it  ?" 

"  T'  ghaist  of  Mistress  Fairlie,"  answered  Jacob,  in  a  whisper. 

The  efi"ect  which  this  extraordinary  reply  produced  on  ]VIiss  Hal- 
combe fully  justified  the  anxiety  which  the  school-master  had  shown 
to  prevent  her  from  hearing  it.  Her  face  crimsoned  with  indigna- 
tion— she  turned  upon  little  Jacob  with  an  angry  suddenness  which 
terrified  him  into  a  fresh  burst  of  tears — opened  her  lips  to  speak  to 
him — then  controlled  herself— and  addressed  the  master  instead  of 
the  boy. 

"  It  is  useless,"  she  said,  "  to  hold  such  a  child  as  that  responsible 
for  what  he  says,  I  have  little  doubt  that  the  idea  has  been  put  into 
his  head  by  others.  If  there  are  jDeople  in  this  village,  Mr.  Dempster, 
who  have  forgotten  the  respect  and  gratitude  due  fi'om  every  soul  in 
it  to  my  mother's  memoiT,  I  will  find  them  out ;  and,  if  I  have  any 
influence  with  ]\Ir.  Fairlie,  they  shall  suflfer  for  it." 

"  I  hope — indeed,  I  am  sure,  IVIiss  Halcombe — that  you  are  mis- 
taken," said  the  school-master.  "  The  matter  begins  and  ends  with 
the  boy's  own  perversity  and  folly.  He  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  a 
woman  in  white,  yesterday  evening,  as  he  was  passing  the  church- 
yard ;  and  the  figure,  real  or  fancied,  was  standing  by  the  marble 
cross,  which  he  and  eveiy  one  else  in  Limmeridge  knows  to  be  the 
monument  over  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave.  These  two  circumstances  are 
surely  sufficient  to  have  suggested  to  the  boy  himself  the  answer 
which  has  so  naturally  shocked  you  ?" 

Although  Miss  Halcombe  did  not  seem  to  be  convinced,  she  evi- 


«0  THE    WOilAN    IX    AVIIITE. 

dently  felt  that  tlic  school-master's  statement  of  the  case  was  too 
sensible  to  be  openly  combated.  She  merely  replied  by  thanking 
him  for  his  attention,  and  by  promising  to  see  him  again  when  her 
doubts  were  satisfied.  This  said,  she  bowed,  and  led  the  way  out 
of  the  school-room.  — 

Throughout  the  whole  of  this  strange  scene.  I  had  stood  apart, 
listening  attentively,  and  drawing  my  own  conclusions.  As  soon  as 
we  were  alone  again,  ]Miss  Halcombe  asked  me  if  I  had  formed  any 
opinion  on  what  I  had  heard. 

"  A  veiT  strong  opinion,"  I  answered ;  "  the  boy's  story,  as  I  be- 
lieve, has  a  foundation  in  fact.  I  confess  I  am  anxious  to  see  the 
monument  over  Mrs.  Fau'lie's  grave,  and  to  examine  the  ground 
about  it." 

"  You  shall  see  the  grave." 

She  paused  after  making  that  reply,  and  reflected  a  little  as  we 
walked  on.  "  "What  has  happened  in  the  school-room,"  she  resumed, 
''  has  so  completely  distracted  my  attention  from  the  subject  of  the 
letter,  that  I  feel  a  little  bewildered  when  I  tiy  to  return  to  it.  Must 
we  give  up  all  idea  of  making  any  further  inquiries,  and  wait  to  place 
the  thing  in  Mr.  Gilmore's  hands,  to-morrow  ?" 

"  By  no  means,  Miss  Halcombe.  What  has  happened  in  the  school- 
room encourages  me  to  persevere  in  the  investigation." 

"  Wliy  does  it  encourage  you  ?" 

"  Because  it  strengthens  a  su&i3icion  I  felt  when  you  gave  me  the 
letter  to  read." 

"I  suppose  you  had  your  reasons,  Mr.  Hartright,  for  concealing  that 
suspicion  from  me  till  this  moment  V 

"  I  was  afraid  to  encourage  it  in  myself  I  thought  it  was  utterly 
preposterous — I  distrusted  it  as  the  result  of.  some  perversity  in  my 
own  imagination.  But  I  can  do  so  no  longer.  Not  only  the  boy's 
own  answers  to  your  questions,  but  even  a  chance  expression  that 
dropped  from  the  school-master's  lips  in  explaining  his  story,  have 
forced  the  idea  back  into  my  mind.  Events  may  yet  prove  that 
idea  to  be  a  delusion,  Miss  Halcombe ;  but  the  belief  is  strong  in 
me,  at  this  moment,  that  the  fancied  ghost  in  the  church-yard,  and 
the  writer  of  the  anonymous  letter  are  one  and  the  same  person.'J 

She  stopped,  turned  pale,  and  looked  me  eagerly  in  the  face. 

"  What  person  ?" 

"  Tire  school-master  unconsciously  told  you.  When  he  spoke  of 
the  figure  that  the  boy  saw  in  the  church-yard,  he  called  it  '  a  wom- 
an in  white.' '' 

''  Not  Annie  Catherick  1" 

"  Yes.  Annie  Catherick.'' 

She  put  her  hand  through  my  arm,  and  leaned  on  it  heavilj^ 

*'  I  don't  know  why,"  she  said  in  low  tones,  "  but  there  is  some- 


THE  avo:man  in  white.  81 

thing  in  this  suspicion  of  yours  that  seems  to  startle  and  unnerve  me. 
I  feel — "  She  stopped,  and  tried  to  laugh  it  oflF.  "  Mr.  Hartright," 
she  went  on,  '•  I  will  show  you  the  grave,  and  then  go  back  at  once 
to  the  house.  I  had  better  not  leave  Laura  too  long  alone.  I  had 
better  go  back,  and  sit  with  her." 

We  were  close  to  the  church-yard  when  she  spoke.  The  church, 
a  dreary  building  of  gray  stone,  was  situated  in  a  little  valley,  so  as 
to  be  sheltered  from  the  bleak  winds  blowing  over  the  moor-land  all 
round  it.  The  burial-ground  advanced,  from  the  side  of  the  church, 
a  little  way  up  the  slope  of  the  hill.  It  was  surrounded  by  a  rough, 
low  stone  wall,  and  was  bare  and  open  to  the  sky,  except  at  one  ex- 
tremity, where  a  brook  trickled  down  the  stony  hill -side,  and  a 
clump  of  dwarf  trees  threw  their  narrow  shadoAvs  over  the  short, 
meagre  grass.  Just  beyond  the  brook  and  the  trees,  and  not  far 
from  one  of  the  three  stone  stiles  which  aflforded  entrance,  at  various 
points,  to  the  church-yard,  rose  the  white  marble  cross  that  distin- 
guished Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave  from  the  humbler  monuments  scattered 
about  it. 

"  I  need  go  no  farther  with  you,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  pointing  to 
the  grave.  '•  You  will  let  me  know  if  you  find  any  thing  to  confirm 
the  idea  you  have  just  mentioned  to  me.  Let  us  meet  again  at  the 
house.'' 

She  left  me.  I  descended  at  once  to  the  church-yard,  and  crossed 
the  stile  which  led  directly  to  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave. 

The  grass  about  it  was  too  short,  and  the  ground  too  hard,  to 
show  any  marks  of  footsteps.  Disappointed  thus  far,  I  next  looked 
attentively  at  the  cross,  and  at  the  square  block  of  marble  below  it, 
on  which  the  inscription  was  cut. 

The  natural  whiteness  of  the  cross  was  a  little  clouded,  here  and 
there,  by  weather-stains ;  and  rather  more  than  one  half  of  the  square 
block  beneath  it,  on  the  side  which  bore  the  inscription,  was  in  the 
same  condition.  The  other  half,  however,  attracted  ray  attention  at 
once  by  its  singular  freedom  from  stain  or  impurity  of  any  kind.  I 
looked  closer,  and  saw  that  it  had  been  cleaned,  recently  cleaned, 
in  a  downward  direction  from  top  to  bottom.  The  boundary  line 
between  the  part  that  had  been  cleaned  and  the  part  that  had  not, 
was  traceable  wherever  the  inscription  left  a  blank  space  of  marble 
— sharply  traceable  as  a  line  that  had  been  produced  by  artificial 
means.  Who  had  begun  the  cleansing  of  the  marble,  and  who  had 
left  it  unfinished  ? 

I  looked  about  me,  wondering  how  the  question  was  to  be  solved. 
No  sign  of  a  habitation  could  be  discerned  from  the  point  at  which 
I  was  standing :  the  burial-ground  was  left  in  the  lonely  possession 
of  the  dead.     I  returned  to  the  church,  and  walked  round  it  till  I 

then  crossed  the  boundary  wall 


82  THE    AVOMAX    IN    WHITE, 

lieyond,  l)v  another  of  the  stone  stiles,  and  found  myself  at  the  head 
of  a  path  leading  down  into  a  deserted  stone  quarry.  Against  one 
side  of  the  quarry  a  little  two-room  cottage  was  built;  and  just  out- 
side the  door  an  old  woman  was  engaged  in  washing. 

I  walked  up  to  her,  and  entered  into  conversation  about  the 
church  and  burial-ground.  She  was  ready  enough  to  talk;  and  al- 
most the  first  words  she  said  informed  me  that  her  husband  filled 
the  two  offices  of  clerk  and  sexton.  I  said  a  few  words  next  in 
praise  of  Mrs.  Fairlie's  monument.  The  old  woman  shook  her  head, 
and  told  me  I  had  not  seen  it  at  its  Ijest.  It  was  her  husband's 
business  to  look  after  it ;  but  he  had  been  so  ailing  and  weak,  for 
months  and  months  past,  that  he  had  hardly  been  able  to  crawl  into 
church  on  Sundays  to  do  his  duty;  and  the  monument  had  been 
neglected  in  consequence.  He  was  getting  a  little  better  now ;  and, 
in  a  week  or  ten  days'  time,  he  hoped  to  be  strong  enough  to  set  to 
work  and  clean  It. 

This  information — extracted  from  a  long  rambling  answer,  in  the 
broadest  Cumberland  dialect — told  me  all  that  I  most  wanted  to 
know.  I  gave  the  poor  woman  a  trifle,  and  returned  at  once  to 
Limmeridge  House. 

The  partial  cleansing  of  the  monument  had  evidently  been  accom- 
plished by  a  strange  hand.  Connecting  what  I  had  discovered,  thus 
far,  with  what  I  had  suspected  after  hearing  the  story  of  the  ghost 
seen  at  twilight,  I  wanted  nothing  more  to  confirm  my  resolution  to 
watch  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave,  in  secret,  that  evening ;  returning  to  it  at 
sunset,  and  waiting  within  sight  of  it  till  the  night  fell.  The  work 
of  cleansing  the  monument  had  been  left  unfinished ;  and  the  per- 
son by  whom  it  had  been  begun  might  return  to  complete  it. 

On  getting  back  to  the  house,  I  informed  Miss  Halcombe  of  what 
I  intended  to  do.  She  looked  surprised  and  uneasy,  while  I  was 
explaining  my  puqDose ;  but  she  made  no  positive  objection  to  the 
execution  of  it.  She  only  said,  "  I  hope  it  may  end  well."  Just  as 
she  was  leaving  me  again,  I  stopped  her  to  inquire,  as  calmly  as  I 
could,  after  ^liss  Fairlie's  health.  She  was  in  better  spirits ;  and 
Miss  Halcombe  hoped  she  might  be  induced  to  take  a  little  walking 
exercise  while  the  afternoon  sun  lasted. 

I  returned  to  my  own  room,  to  resume  setting  the  drawings  in 
order.  It  was  necessary  to  do  this,  and  doubly  necessary  to  keep 
my  mind  employed  on  any  thing  that  would  help  to  distract  my  at- 
tention from  myself,  and  from  the  hopeless  future  that  lay  before  me. 
From  time  to  time,  I  paused  in  my  work  to  look  out  of  the  window 
and  watch  the  sky  as  the  sun  sank  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  horizon. 
On  one  of  those  occasions  I  saw  a  figure  on  the  broad  gravel-walk 
imder  my  window.     It  was  Miss  Fairlie. 

I  had  not  seen  her  since  the  morning ;  and  I  had  hardly  spoken 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  83 

to  her  then.  Another  day  at  Limmeridge  was  all  that  remained  to 
me ;  and  after  that  day  my  eyes  might  never  look  on  her  again. 
This  thought  was  enough  to  hold  me  at  the  window.  I  had  suf- 
ficient consideration  for  her,  to  arrange  the  blind  so  that  she  might 
not  see  me  if  she  looked  up ;  but  I  had  no  strength  to  resist  the 
temptation  of  letting  my  eyes,  at  least,  follow  her  as  far  as  they  could 
on  her  walk. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  brown  cloak,  with  a  plain  black  silk  gown 
under  it.  On  her  head  was  the  same  simple  straw  hat  which  she 
had  worn  on  the  morning  when  we  first  met.  A  veil  was  attached 
to  it  now,  which  hid  her  face  from  me.  By  her  side  trotted  a  little 
Italian  greyhound,  the  pet  companion  of  all  her  walks,  smartly  dress- 
ed in  a  scarlet  cloth  wrapper,  to  keep  the  sharp  air  from  his  delicate 
skin.  She  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  dog.  She  walked  straight 
forward,  with  her  head  drooping  a  little,  and  her  arms  folded  in  her 
cloak.  The  dead  leaves  which  had  whirled  in  the  wind  before  me, 
when  I  had  heard  of  her  marriage  engagement  in  the  morning, 
whirled  in  the  wind  before  her,  and  rose  and  fell  and  scattered  them- 
selves at  her  feet,  as  she  walked  on  in  the  pale  waning  sunlight. 
The  dog  shivered  and  trembled,  and  pressed  against  her  dress  im- 
patiently for  notice  and  encouragement.  But  she  never  heeded  him. 
She  walked  on,  farther  and  farther  away  from  me,  with  the  dead 
leaves  whirling  about  her  on  the  path — walked  on  till  my  aching 
eyes  could  see  her  no  more,  and  I  was  left  alone  again  with  my  own 
heavy  heart. 

In  another  hour's  time  I  had  done  my  work,  and  the  sunset  was 
at  hand.  I  got  my  hat  and  coat  in  the  liall,  and  slipped  out  of  the 
house  without  meeting  any  one. 

The  clouds  were  wild  in  the  western  heaven,  and  the  wind  blew 
chill  from  the  sea.  Far  as  the  shore  was,  the  sound  of  the  surf 
swept  over  the  intervening  moor-land,  and  beat  drearily  in  my  ears, 
when  I  entered  the  church -yard.  Not  a  living  creature  w^as  in 
sight.  The  place  looked  lonelier  than  ever,  as  I  chose  my  posi- 
tion, and  waited  and  watched,  with  my  eyes  on  the  white  cross  that 
rose  over  Mrs.  Faii'lie's  grave. 

XIII. 

The  exposed  situation  of  the  church-yard  had  obliged  me  to  be 
cautious  in  choosing  the  position  that  I  was  to  occupy. 

The  main  entrance  to  the  church  was  on  the  side  next  to  the 
burial-ground ;  and  the  door  was  screened  by  a  porch  walled  in  on 
either  side.  After  some  little  hesitation,  caused  by  natural  reluc- 
tance to  conceal  myself,  indispensable  as  that  concealment  was  to 
the  object  in  view,  I  had  resolved  on  entering  the  porch.  A  loop- 
hole window  was  pierced  in  each  of  its  side  walls.    Through  one  of 


«4  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

tlicsc  windows  I  could  see  Mrs.  Faiilie's  grave.  The  other  looked 
toward  the  stone  quarry  in  which  the  sexton's  cottage  was  built. 
Before  me,  fronting  the  porch  entrance,  was  a  patch  of  bare  burial- 
ground,  a  line  of  low  stone  wall,  and  a  strip  of  lonely  brown  hill, 
with  the  sunset  clouds  sailing  heavily  over  it  before  the  strong, 
steady  wind.  No  living  creature  was  visiljle  or  audible — no  bird 
flew  by  me ;  no  dog  barked  from  the  sexton's  cottage.  The  pauses 
in  the  dull  Ideating  of  the  surf  were  filled  up  by  the  dreary  rustling 
of  the  dwarf  trees  near  the  grave,  and  the  cold  faint  bubble  of  the 
brook  over  its  stony  bed.  A  dreaiy  scene  and  a  dreary  liour.  ^My 
spirits  sank  fast  as  I  counted  out  the  minutes  of  the  evening  in  my 
hiding-j^lace  under  the  church  porch. 

It  was  not  twilight  yet — the  light  of  the  setting  sun  still  lingered 
in  the  heavens,  and  little  more  than  the  first  half  hour  of  my  solitary 
watch  had  elapsed — when  I  heard  footsteps,  and  a  voice.  The  foot- 
steps were  approaching  from  the  other  side  of  the  church ;  and  the 
voice  was  a  woman's. 

"  Don't  you  fret,  my  dear,  about  the  letter,"  said  the  voice.  "  \ 
gave  it  to  the  lad  quite  safe,  and  the  lad  he  took  it  from  me  without 
a  word.  He  went  his  way  and  I  went  mine ;  and  not  a  living  soul 
followed  me,  afterward — that  1*11  warrant.'' 

These  words  strung  up  my  attention  to  a  pitch  of  expectation 
that  was  almost  painful.  There  was  a  pause  of  silence,  ])ut  the  foot- 
steps still  advanced.  In  another  moment,  two  persons,  both  women, 
passed  within  my  range  of  view  from  the  porch  window.  They  were 
walking  straight  toward  the  grave;  and  therefore  they  had  their 
backs  turned  toward  me. 

One  of  the  women  was  dressed  in  a  bonnet  and  shawl.  The  oth- 
er w^ore  a  long  traveling-cloak  of  a  dark-blue  color,  with  the  hood 
draw^n  over  her  head.  A  few  inches  of  her  gown  wQTe  visible  below 
the  cloak.     My  heart  beat  fast  as  I  noted  the  color — it  was  white. 

After  advancing  about  half-way  between  the  church  and  the  grave, 
they  stopped;  and  the  woman  in  the  cloak  turned  her  head  toward 
her  companion.  But  her  side  face,  which  a  bonnet  might  now  have 
allowed  me  to  see,  was  hidden  by  the  heavy,  projecting  edge  of  the 
hood. 

"Mind  you  keep  that  comfortable  warm  cloak  on,"  said  the  same 
voice  which  I  had  already  heard — the  voice  of  the  woman  in  the 
shawl.  "Mrs.  Todd  is  right  about  your  looking  too  particular, 
yesterday,  all  in  white.  I'll  walk  about  a  little,  while  you're  here; 
church-yards  being  not  at  all  in  my  way,  whatever  they  may  be  in 
yours.  Finish  what  you  want  to  do,  before  I  come  back  ;  and  let  us 
be  sure  and  get  home  again  before  night." 

With  those  words,  she  turned  about,  and  retracing  her  steps,  ad- 
vanced with  her  face  toward  me.     It  was  the  face  of  an  elderly 


THE    WOMAN    IN    AVHITE.  85 

woman,  brown,  ru<Tgcd,  and  healthy,  with  nothing  dishonest  or  sus- 
picious in  the  look  of  it.  Close  to  the  church,  she  stopped  to  pull 
her  shawl  closer  round  her. 

"  Queer,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  always  queer  with  her  whims  and 
her  waj's,  ever  since  I  can  remember  her.  Harmless,  though  —  as 
harmless,  poor  soul,  as  a  little  child." 

She  sighed;  looked  about  the  burial-ground  nervously;  shook  her 
head  as  if  the  dreary  prospect  by  no  means  pleased  her;  and  disap- 
peared round  the  corner  of  the  church. 

I  doubted  for  a  moment  whether  I  ought  to  follow  and  speak  to 
her,  or  not.  My  intense  anxiety  to  find  myself  face  to  ftice  with  her 
companion  helped  me  to  decide  in  the  negative.  I  could  insure  see- 
ing the  woman  in  the  shawl  by  waiting  near  the  church-yard  until 
she  came  back — although  it  seemed  more  than  doubtful  whether 
she  could  give  me  the  information  of  which  I  was  in  search.  The 
person  who  had  delivered  the  letter  was  of  little  consequence.  The 
person  who  had  written  it  was  the  one  centre  of  interest,  and  the 
one  source  of  information ;  and  that  person  I  now  felt  convinced  was 
before  me  in  the  church-yard. 

While  these  ideas  were  passing  through  my  mind,  I  saw  the  woman 
in  the  cloak  approach  close  to  the  grave,  and  stand  looking  at  it  for 
a  little  while.  She  then  glanced  all  round  her,  and,  taking  a  white 
linen  cloth  or  handkerchief  from  under  her  cloak,  turned  aside  to- 
ward the  brook.  The  little  stream  ran  into  the  church-yard  under 
a  tiny  archway  in  the  bottom  of  the  wall,  and  ran  out  again,  after  a 
winding  course  of  a  few  dozen  yards,  under  a  similar  opening.  She 
dipped  the  cloth  in  the  water,  and  returned  to  the  grave.  I  saw  her 
kiss  the  white  cross ;  then  kneel  down  before  the  inscnption,  and 
apply  her  wet  cloth  to  the  cleansing  of  it. 

After  considering  how  I  could  show  myself  with  the  least  possible 
chance  of  frightening  her,  I  resolved  to  cross  the  wall  before  me,  to 
skirt  round  it  outside,  and  to  enter  the  church-yard  again  by  the 
stile  near  the  grave,  in  order  that  she  might  see  me  as  I  approached. 
She  was  so  absorbed  over  her  employment  that  she  did  not  hear  me 
coming  until  I  had  stepped  over  the  stile.  Then,  she  looked  up, 
started  to  her  feet  with  a  faint  cit,  and  stood  facing  me  in  speech- 
less and  motionless  ten'or. 

''  Don't  be  frightened,"  I  said.     "  Surely  you  remember  me  ?" 

I  stopped  while  I  spoke — then  advanced  a  few  steps  gently — then 
stopped  again — and  so  approached  by  little  and  little,  till  I  was 
close  to  her.  If  there  had  been  any  doubt  still  left  in  my  mind,  it 
must  have  been  now  set  at  rest.  There,  speaking  affrightedly  for 
itself — there  was  the  sam.e  face  confronting  me  over  Mrs.  Fairlie's 
grave,  which  had  first  looked  into  mine  on  the  high-road  by  night. 

"  You  remember  me  ?"  I  said.     "  We  met  very  late,  and  I  helped 


86  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

you  to  find  the  way  to  London.      Surely  you  have  not  forgotten 
thatr 

Her  features  relaxed,  and  she  drew  a  heavy  breath  of  relief.  I 
saw  the  new  life  of  recognition  stirring  slowly  under  the  death-like 
stillness  which  fear  had  set  on  her  face. 

"Don't  attempt  to  speak  to  me,  just  yet,"  I  went  on.  "Take 
time  to  recover  yourself — take  time  to  feel  quite  certain  that  I 
am  a  friend." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  she  murmured.  "As  kind  now,  as 
you  were  then." 

She  stopped,  and  I  kept  silence  on  my  side.  I  was  not  granting 
time  for  composure  to  her  only,  I  was  gaining  time  also  for  myself. 
Under  the  wan  wild  evening  light,  that  woman  and  I  were  met  to- 
gether again ;  a  grave  between  us,  the  dead  about  us,  the  lonesome 
hills  closing  us  round  on  every  side.  The  time,  the  place,  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  we  now  stood  face  to  face  in  the  evening 
stillness  of  that  dreary  valley ;  the  life-long  interests  which  might 
hang  suspended  on  the  next  chance  words  that  passed  between  us; 
the  sense  that,  for  aught  I  knew  to  the  contrary,  the  whole  future  of 
Laura  Fairlie^s  life  might  be  determined,  for  good  or  for  evil,  by  my 
winning  or  losing  the  confidenee  of  the  forlorn  creature  who  stood 
trembling  by  her  mother's  grave-Vall  threatened  to  shake  the  steadi- 
ness and  the  self-control  on  which  every  inch  of  the  progress  I  might 
yet  make  now  depended.  I  tried  hard,  as  I  felt  this,  to  possess  my- 
self of  all  my  resources ;  I  did  my  utmost  to  turn  the  few  moments 
for  reflection  to  the  best  account. 

"Are  you  calmer,  now?"  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  thought  it  time  to 
speak  again.  "  Can  you  talk  to  me  without  feeling  frightened,  and 
without  forgetting  that  I  am  a  friend  ?" 

"  How  did  you  come  here  ?"  she  asked,  without  noticing  what  I 
had  just  said  to  her. 

"  Don't  you  remember  my  telling  you,  when  we  last  met,  that  I 
was  going  to  Cumberland  ?  I  have  been  in  Cumberland  ever  since; 
I  have  been  staying  all  the  time  at  Limmeridge  House." 

"At  Limmeridge  House  !"  Her  pale  face  brightened  as  she  repeat- 
ed the  words;  her  wandering  eyes  fixed  on  me  with  a  sudden  inter- 
est. "Ah,  how  happy  you  must  have  been  !"  she  said,  looking  at  me 
eagerly,  without  a  shadow  of  its  former  distrust  left  in  her  expression. 

I  took  advantage  of  her  newly-aroused  confidence  in  me,  to  ob- 
serve her  face,  with  an  attention  and  a  curiosity  which  I  had  hither- 
to restrained  myself  from  showing,  for  caution's  sake.  I  looked  at 
her,  with  my  mind  full  of  that  other  lovely  face  which  had  so  omi- 
nously recalled  her  to  my  memory  on  the  terrace  by  moonlight.  I 
had  seen  Anne  Cutherick's  likeness  in  Miss  Fairlie.  I  now  saw  Miss 
Fairlie's  likeness  in  Anne  Catherick — saw  it  all  the  more  clearly  be- 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  87 

cause  the  points  of  dissimilarity  between  the  two  were  presented  to 
me  as  well  as  the  points  of  resemblance.  In  the  general  ciitline  of 
the  countenance  and  general  proportion  of  the  features;  in  the  color 
of  the  hair  and  in  the  little  nervous  uncertainty  about  the  lips ;  in 
the  height  and  size  of  the  figure,  and  the  carriage  of  the  head  and 
l)ody,  the  likeness  appeared  even  more  startling  than  I  had  ever  felt 
it  to  be  yet.  But  there  the  resemblance  ended,  and  the  dissimilarity, 
in  details,  began.  The  delicate  beauty  of  31iss  Fairlie's  complexion, 
the  transparent  clearness  of  her  eyes,  the  smooth  purity  of  her  skin, 
the  tender  bloom  of  color  on  her  lips,  were  all  missing  from  the 
worn,  weary  face  that  was  now  turned  toward  mine.  Although  I 
hated  myself  even  for  thinking  such  a  thing,  still,  while  I  looked  at 
the  woman  before  me,  the  idea  would  force  itself  into  my  mind  that 
one  sad  change,  in  the  future,  was  all  that  was  wanting  to  make  the 
likeness  complete,  which  I  now  saw  to  be  so  imperfect  in  detail.  If 
ever  sorrow  and  suffering  set  their  profaning  marks  on  the  youth 
and  beauty  of  Miss  Fairlie's  face,  then,  and  then  only,  Anne  Catherick 
and  she  would  be  the  twin-sisters  of  chance  resemblance,  the  living 
reflections  of  one  another." 

I  shuddered  at  the  thought.  There  was  something  horrible  in  the 
blind  unreasoning  distrust  of  the  future  which  the  mere  passage  of 
it  through  my  mind  seemed  to  imply.  It  was  a  welcome  interruj3- 
tion  to  be  roused  by  feeling  Anne  Catherick's  hand  laid  on  my  shoul- 
der. The  touch  was  as  stealthy  and  as  sudden  as  that  other  touch, 
which  had  jDetrified  me  from  head  to  foot  on  the  night  when  we 
first  met. 

"  You  are  looking  at  me ;  and  you  are  thinking  of  something,"  she 
said,  with  her  strange,  breathless  rapidity  of  utterance.    "  What  is  it  ?" 

''  Nothing  extraordinary,"  I  answered.  ''  I  was  only  wondering 
how  you  came  here." 

''  I  came  with  a  friend  who  is  very  good  to  me.  I  have  only  been 
here  two  days." 

"  And  you  found  your  way  to  this  place  yesterday  ?" 

'•  How  do  you  know  that  ?" 

'•  I  only  guessed  it." 

She  turned  from  me,  and  knelt  down  before  the  inscription  once 
more. 

"  Where  should  I  go,  if  not  here  ?"  she  said.  "  The  friend  who 
was  better  then  a  mother  to  me,  is  the  only  friend  I  have  to  visit  at 
Limmeridge,  Oh,  it  makes  my  heart  ache  to  see  a  stain  on  her 
tomb !  It  ought  to  be  kept  white  as  snow  for  her  sake.  I  was 
tempted  to  begin  cleaning  it  yesterday;  and  I  can't  help  coming  back 
to  go  on  with  it  to-day.  Is  there  any  thing  wrong  in  that  ?  I  hope 
not.     Surely  nothing  can  be  wrong  that  I  do  for  Mrs.  Fairlie's  sake?" 

The  old  grateful  sense  of  her  benefactress's  kindness  was  evidently 


88  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVUITE. 

the  ruling  idea  still  in  the  poor  creature's  mind — the  narrow  mind 
which  had  but  too  plainly  opened  to  no  other  lasting  impression 
since  that  first  impression  of  her  younger  and  happier  days.  I  saw 
that  my  best  chance  of  winning  her  confidence  lay  in  encouraging 
her  to  proceed  with  the  artless  employment  which  she  had  come 
into  the  burial-ground  to  pursue.  She  resumed  it  at  once,  on  my 
telling  her  she  might  do  so;  touching  the  hard  marble  as  tenderly 
as  if  it  had  been  a  sentient  thing,  and  whispering  the  words  of  the 
inscription  to  herself,  over  and  over  again,  as  if  the  lost  days  of  her 
girlhood  had  returned  and  she  was  patiently  learning  her  lesson  once 
mare  at  Mrs.  Fairlie's  knees, 

''  Should  you  wonder  veiy  much,"  I  said,  preparing  the  way  as 
cautiously  as  I  could  for  the  questions  that  were  to  come,  "  if  I  owned 
that  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  me,  as  well  as  a  suq^rise,  to  see  you  here  ? 
I  felt  very  uneasy  about  you  after  you  left  me  in  the  cab." 

She  looked  up  quickly  and  suspiciously. 

"  Uneasy,''  she  repeated.     "  Why  ?" 

"A  strange  thing  happened,  after  we  parted,  that  night.  Two 
men  overtook  me  in  a  chaise.  They  did  not  see  where  I  was  stand- 
ing; but  they  stopped  near  me,  and  sj^okc  to  a  policeman,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way." 

She  instantly  suspended  her  employment.  The  hand  holding 
the  damp  cloth  with  which  she  had  been  cleaning  the  inscription, 
dropped  to  her  side.  The  other  hand  grasped  the  marble  cross  at 
the  head  of  the  grave.  Her  face  turned  toward  me  slowly,  with  the 
Ijlank  look  of  terror  set  rigidly  on  it  once  more,  I  went  on  at  all 
hazards;  it  was  too  late  now  to  draw  back. 

"  The  two  men  spoke  to  the  policeman,"  I  said,  "  and  asked  him 
if  he  had  seen  you.  lie  had  not  seen  j'ou  ;  and  then  one  of  the  men 
spoke  again,  and  said  you  had  escaped  from  his  Asylum." 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  as  if  my  last  words  had  set  the  pursuers  on 
her  track. 

"  Stop,  and  hear  the  end,"  I  cried,  "  Stop,  and  you  shall  know 
how  I  befriended  you,  A  word  from  me  would  have  told  the  men 
which  way  you  had  gone — and  I  never  spoke  that  word.  I  helped 
your  escape — I  made  it  safe  and  certain.  Think,  try^  to  think.  Try 
to  understand  what  I  tell  you." 

My  manner  seemed  to  influence  her  more  than  my  words.  She 
made  an  effort  to  grasp  the  new  idea.  Her  hands  shifted  the  damp 
cloth  hesitatingly  from  one  to  the  other,  exactly  as  they  had  shifted 
the  little  traveling-bag  on  the  night  when  I  first  saw  lier.  Slowly 
the  purpose  of  my  words  seemed  to  force  its  way  through  the  con- 
fusion and  agitation  of  her  mind.  Slowly  her  features  relaxed,  and 
her  eyes  looked  at  me  with  their  expression  gaining  in  curiosity 
■vrhat  it  was  fast  losing  in  fear. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVHITE.  89 

'•  Y(ni  don  t  tliink  I  ought  to  be  back  in  the  Asylum,  do  you  ?"  she 
said. 

"  Certainly  not.  I  am  glad  you  escaped  from  it ;  I  am  glad  I 
helped  you.'' 

"Yes,  yes;  you  did  help  me  indeed;  you  helped  me  at  the  hard 
part,"  she  went  on,  a  little  vacantly.  "  It  was  easy  to  escape,  or  I 
should  not  have  got  away.  They  never  suspected  me  as  they  sus- 
pected the  others.  I  was  so  quiet,  and  so  obedient,  and  so  easily 
frightened.  The  finding  London  was  the  hard  part ;  and  there  you 
helped  me.  Did  I  thank  you  at  the  time?  I  thank  you  now,  very 
kindly." 

"  Was  the  Asylum  far  from  where  you  met  me  ?  Come  I  show 
that  you  believe  me  to  be  your  friend,  and  tell  me  where  it  was." 

She  mentioned  the  place — a  private  Asylum,  as  its  situation  in- 
formed me;  a  private  xisylum  not  very  far  from  the  spot  where  I 
had  seen  her — and  then,  with  evident  suspicion  of  the  use  to  which 
I  might  put  her  answer,  anxiously  repeated  her  former  inquiry  : 
''You  don't  think  I  ought  to  be  taken  back,  do  you?" 

"  Once  again,  I  am  glad  you  escaped ;  I  am  glad  you  prospered 
v^'ell,  after  you  left  me,"  I  answered.  "  You  said  you  had  a  friend 
in  London  to  go  to.     Did  you  find  the  friend  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  very  late ;  but  there  was  a  girl  ujd  at  needle-work 
in  the  house,  and  she  helped  me  to  rouse  Mrs.  Clements.  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents is  my  friend.  A  good,  kind  woman,  but  not  like  j\Irs.  Fairlie. 
Ah  no,  nobody  is  like  ]Mrs.  Fairlie  I" 

"  Is  Mrs.  Clements  an  old  friend  of  yours?  Have  you  known  her 
a  long  time  ?" 

"  Yes ;  she  was  a  neighbor  of  ours  once,  at  home,  in  Hampshire ; 
and  liked  me,  and  took  care  of  me  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  Years 
ago,  when  she  went  away  from  us,  she  wrote  down  in  my  prayer- 
book  for  me,  where  she  was  going  to  live  in  London,  and  she  said, 
'  If  you  are  ever  in  trouble,  Anne,  come  to  me.  I  have  no  husband 
alive  to  say  me  nay,  and  no  children  to  look  after;  and  I  will  take 
care  of  you.'  Kind  words,  were  they  not  ?  I  suppose  I  remember 
them  because  they  were  kind.  It's  little  enough  I  remember  be- 
sides— little  enough,  little  enough  !" 

"  Had  you  no  father  or  mother  to  take  care  of  you  ?'' 

"  Father  ?     I  never  saw  him  ;  I  never  heard  mother  speak  of  him. 
Father?     Ah,  dear!  he  is  dead,  I  suppose." 
•^    "  And  your  mother  ?"' 

^'    "  I  don't  get  on  well  with  her.     We  are  a  trouble  and  a  fear  to 
each  other." 

A  trouble  and  a  fear  to  each  other  I  At  those  words,  the  suspi- 
cion crossed  my  mind,  for  the  first  time,  that  her  mother  might  be 
the  person  who  had  placed  her  under  restraint. 


90  TUK    WOMAN    IN    WIIITK. 

"  Don't  ask  mc  about  mother,"  she  went  on.  "  I'd  rather  talk  of 
Mrs.  Clements.  Mrs.  Clements  is  like  you,  she  doesn't  think  that  1 
ought  to  be  back  in  the  Asylum ;  and  she  is  as  glad  as  you  are  that 
I  escaped  from  it.  She  cried  over  my  misfortune,  and  said  it  must 
be  kept  secret  from  every  1;ody." 

Her  "misfortune."  In  what  sense  was  she  using  that  word?  In 
a  sense  which  might  explain  her  motive  in  writing  the  anonymous 
letter  ?  In  a  sense  which  might  show  it  to  be  the  too  common  and 
too  customary  motive  that  has  led  many  a  woman  to  interpose  anon- 
ymous hinderances  to  the  marriage  of  the  man  who  has  ruined  her  ? 
I  resolved  to  attempt  the  clearing  up  of  this  doubt,  before  more 
words  passed  between  us  on  either  side. 

"  What  misfortune  ?"  I  asked. 

"  The  misfortune  of  my  being  shut  up,"  she  answered,  with  every 
appearance  of  feeling  surprised  at  my  question.  "  What  other  mis- 
fortune could  there  be  ?" 

I  determined  to  persist,  as  delicately  and  forbearingly  as  possible. 
It  was  of  very  great  importance  that  I  should  be  absolutely  sure  of 
every  step  in  the  investigation  which  I  now  gained  in  advance. 

"  There  is  another  misfortune,"  I  said,  "  to  which  a  woman  may  be 
liable,  and  by  which  she  may  suflfer  life-long  son'ow  and  shame." 

"  What  is  it  ?"  she  asked,  eagerly. 

"  The  misfortune  of  believing  too  innocently  in  her  own  virtue, 
and  in  the  faith  and  honor  of  the  man  she  loves,"  I  answered. 

She  looked  up  at  me  with  the  artless  bewilderment  of  a  child. 
Not  the  slightest  confusion  or  change  of  color;  not  the  faintest 
trace  of  any  secret  consciousness  of  shame  struggling  to  the  surface, 
appeared  in  her  face — that  face  which  betrayed  eveiy  other  emotion 
with  such  transparent  clearness.  No  words  that  ever  were  sjDoken 
could  have  assured  me,  as  her  look  and  manner  now  assured  me, 
that  the  motive  which  I  had  assigned  for  her  writing  the  letter  and 
sending  it  to  Miss  Fairlie  was  plainly  and  distinctly  the  wrong  one. 
That  doul>t,  at  any  rate,  was  now  set  at  rest ;  but  the  very  removal 
of  it  opened  a  new  prospect  of  uncertainty.  The  letter,  as  I  knew 
from  positive  testimony,  pointed  at  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  though  it 
did  not  name  him.  She  must  have  had  some  strong  motive,  origi- 
nating in  some  deep  sense  of  injury,  for  secretly  denouncing  him  to 
Miss  Fairlie,  in  such  terms  as  she  had  employed — and  that  motive 
was  unquestionably  not  to  be  traced  to  the  loss  of  her  innocence 
and  her  character.  Whatever  wrong  he  might  have  inflicted  on  her 
was  not  of  that  nature.     Of  what  nature  could  it  be  ? 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said,  after  evidently  trying  hard, 
and  trjing  in  vain,  to  discover  the  meaning  of  the  words  I  had  last 
said  to  her, 

"Never  mind,"  I  answered.     "Let  us  s;o  on  with  v.hat  we  were 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITE.  91 

talking  about  Tell  me  how  long  you  staid  with  Mrs.  Clements  in 
London,  and  how  you  came  here," 

"  How  long  V  she  repeated.  "  I  staid  with  Mrs.  Clements  till  we 
both  came  to  this  place,  two  days  ago." 

"  You  are  living  in  the  village,  then  ?"  I  said.  "  It  is  strange  I 
should  not  have  heard  of  you,  though  you  have  only  been  here  two 
days." 

''  No,  no ;  not  in  the  village.  Three  miles  away  at  a  f\irm.  Do 
you  know  the  farm  ?     They  call  it  Todd's  Corner." 

I  remembered  the  place  j)erfectly ;  we  had  often  passed  by  it  in 
our  drives.  It  was  one  of  the  oldest  farms  in  the  neighborhood, 
situated  in  a  solitary,  sheltered  spot,  inland  at  the  junction  of  two 
hills." 

"  They  arc  relations  of  Mrs.  Clements  at  Todd's  Comer,"  she  went 
on,  "  and  they  had  often  asked  her  to  go  and  see  them.  She  said 
she  would  go,  and  take  me  with  her,  for  the  quiet  and  the  fresh  air. 
It  was  very  kind,  was  it  not  ?  I  would  have  gone  anywhere  to  be 
quiet,  and  safe,  and  out  of  the  way.  But  when  I  heard  that  Todd's 
Comer  was  near  Limmeridge — oh  !  I  was  so  happy  I  would  have 
walked  all  the  way  barefoot  to  get  there,  and  see  the  schools  and 
the  village  and  Limmeridge  House  again.  They  are  very  good  peo- 
ple at  Todd's  Comer.  I  hope  I  shall  stay  there  a  long  time.  There 
is  only  one  thing  I  don't  like  about  them,  and  don't  like  about  JVIrs. 
Clements — " 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  They  will  tease  me  about  dressing  all  in  white — they  say  it  looks 
so  particular.  How  do  they  know  ?  Mrs.  Fairlie  knew  best.  Mrs, 
Fairlie  would  never  have  made  me  wear  this  ugly  blue  cloak  !  Ah  ! 
she  was  fond  of  white  in  her  lifetime ;  and  here  is  white  stone  about 
her  grave — and  I  am  making  it  whiter  for  her  sake.  She  often  wore 
white  herself;  and  she  alwaj's  dressed  her  little  daughter  in  white. 
Is  i\Iiss  Fairlie  well  and  happy  ?  Docs  she  M'ear  white  now,  as  she 
used  when  she  was  a  girl  ?" 

Her  voice  sank  when  she  put  the  questions  about  Miss  Fau'lic; 
and  she  turned  her  head  farther  and  farther  away  from  me.  I 
thought  I  detected,  in  the  alteration  of  her  manner,  an  uneasy  con- 
sciousness of  the  risk  she  had  run  in  sending  the  anom'mous  letter ; 
and  I  instantly  determined  so  to  frame  my  answer  as  to  surprise  her 
into  owning  it. 

"  Miss  Fau'lie  is  not  very  well  or  very  happy  this  morning,''  I  said. 

She  murmured  a  few  words ;  but  they  were  spoken  so  confusedly, 
and  in  such  a  low  tone,  that  I  could  not  even  guess  at  what  they 
meant. 

''  Did  you  ask  me  why  Miss  Fairlie  was  neither  well  nor  happy  this 
morning  ?"  I  continued. 


92  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

"  No,"  she  said,  quickly  and  eagerly — "  oh,  no,  I  never  asked  that.'" 

"I  will  tell  you  without  your  asking,"  I  went  on.  "Miss  Fairlie 
lias  received  your  letter." 

She  had  been  down  on  her  knees  for  some  little  time  past,  carefully 
removing  the  last  weather-stains  left  about  the  inscription  while  we 
were  speaking  together.  The  first  sentence  of  the  words  I  had  just 
addressed  to  her  made  her  pause  in  her  occupation,  and  turn  slowly 
without  rising  from  her  knees,  so  as  to  face  me.  The  second  sentence 
literally  i)etrified  her.  The  cloth  she  had  been  holding  dropped  from 
her  hands;  her  lips  fell  apart;  all  the  little  color  that  there  was  nat- 
urally in  her  face  left  it  in  an  instant. 

"  How  do  you  know  ?"'  she  said,  faintly.  ''  ^lo  showed  it  to  you  ?" 
The  blood  rushed  back  into  her  face — rushed  overwhelmingly,  as  the 
sense  rushed  upon  lier  mind  that  her  own  words  had  l)etraycd  her. 
She  struck  her  hands  together  in  despair.  "  I  never  wrote  it,"  she 
gasped,  aftrightedly ;  '*  I  know  nothing  about  it  1" 

"  Yes,"  I  said, "  you  wrote  it,  and  you  know  about  it.  It  was  wrong 
to  send  such  a  letter;  it  was  WTong  to  frighten  Miss  Fairlie.  If  you 
had  any  thing  to  say  that  it  was  right  and  necessary  for  her  to  hear, 
you  should  have  gone  yourself  to  Limmeridge  House;  you  should 
liave  spoken  to  the  young  lady  with  your  own  lips." 

She  crouched  down  over  the  flat  stone  of  the  grave  till  her  face 
was  hidden  on  it,  and  made  no  reply. 

'•  Miss  Fairlie  will  be  as  good  and  kind  to  you  as  her  mother  was, 
if  you  mean  well,"  I  went  on.  "Miss  Fairlie  will  keep  your  secret, 
and  not  let  you  come  to  any  harm.  Will  j'ou  see  her  to-morrow 
at  the  farm?  Will  you  meet  her  in  the  garden  at  Limmeridge 
House  ?" 

"Oh,  if  I  could  die,  and  be  hidden  and  at  rest  with  yoti  T  Her 
lips  murmured  the  Avords  close  on  the  grave-stone ;  murmured  them 
in  tones  of  passionate  endearment,  to  the  dead  remains  beneath. 
"FoM  know"  how  I  love  your  child,  for  your  sake !  Oh,  Mrs.  Fairlie ! 
Mrs.  Fairlie  !  tell  me  how  to  save  her.  Be  my  darling  and  my  moth- 
er once  more,  and  tell  me  what  to  do  for  the  best." 

I  heard  her  lips  kissing  the  stone:  I  saw  her  hands  beating  on  it 
passionately.  The  sound  and  the  sight  deeply  affected  me.  I  stoop- 
ed down,  and  took  the  poor  helpless  hands  tenderly  in  mine,  and 
tried  to  soothe  her. 

It  was  useless.  She  snatched  her  hands  from  me,  and  never  moved 
her  face  from  the  stone.  Seeing  the  urgent  necessity  of  quieting  her 
at  any  hazard  and  l)y  any  means.  I  appealed  to  the  only  anxiety  that 
slie  appeared  to  feel,  in  connection  with  me  and  with  my  opinion  of 
her — tlie  anxiety  to  convince  me  of  her  fitness  to  be  mistress  of  her 
oivn  actions. 

"  Conic,  come,"  I  said,  gently.     "  Try  to  compose  yourself,  or  you 


THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 


93 


will  make  me  alter  my  opinion  of  you.  Don't  let  me  tliink  that  the 
person  who  put  you  in  the  Asylum  might  have  had  some  excuse — ■" 

The  next  words  died  away  on  my  lips.  The  instant  I  risked  that 
chance  reference  to  the  person  who  had  put  her  in  the  Asylum,  she 
sprang  up  on  her  knees.  A  most  extraordinary  and  startling  change 
passed  over  her.  Her  face,  at  all  ordinary  timos  so  touching  to  look 
at,  in  its  nervous  sensitiveness,  weakness,  and  uncertainty,  became  sud- 
denly darkened  by  an  expression  of  maniacally  intense  hatred  and 
fear,  which  communicated  a  wild,  unnatural  force  to  every  feature. 
Her  eyes  dilated  in  the  dim  evening  light,  like  the  eyes  of  a  Avild  an- 
imal. She  caught  up  the  cloth  that  had  fallen  at  her  side,  as  if  it 
had  been  a  living  creature  that  she  could  kill,  and  crushed  it  in  both 
her  hands  with  such  convulsive  strength  that  the  few  drops  of  moist- 
ure left  in  it  trickled  down  on  the  stone  beneath  her. 

"  Talk  of  something  else,''  she  said,  whispering  through  her  teeth. 
"•  I  shall  lose  myself  if  you  talk  of  that.*' 

Every  vestige  of  the  gentler  thoughts  which  had  filled  her  mind 
hardly  a  minute  since  seemed  to  be  swept  from  it  now.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  the  impression  left  by  Mrs.  Fairlie's  kindness  was  not,  as 
I  had  supposed,  the  only  strong  impression  on  her  memory.  With 
the  grateful  remembrance  of  her  school-days  at  Limmeiidge,  there 
existed  the  vindictive  remembrance  of  the  wrong  inflicted  on  her  b\ 
her  confinement  in  the  Asylum.  Who  had  done  that  wrong  ?  Could 
it  really  be  her  mother  ? 

It  was  hard  to  give  uj)  pui-suing  the  inquiry  to  that  final  point; 
but  I  forced  myself  to  abandon  all  idea  of  continuing  it.  Seeing  her 
as  I  saw  her  now,  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  think  of  any  thing  but 
the  necessity  and  the  humanity  of  restoring  her  composure. 

"  I  will  talk  of  nothing  to  distress  you,"  I  said,  soothingly. 

"You  want  something,"  she  answered,  sharply  and  susj^iciously. 
''  Don't  look  at  me  like  that.    Speak  to  me ;  tell  me  what  you  want." 

*'  I  only  want  you  to  quiet  yourself,  and,  when  you  are  calmer,  to 
think  over  what  I  have  said." 

'•  Said  ?"  She  paused ;  twisted  the  cloth  in  her  hands,  backward 
and  forward ;  and  whispered  to  herself,  "  What  is  it  he  said  ?"  She 
turned  again  toward  me,  and  shook  her  head  imjDatiently.  "Why 
don't  you  help  me  ?"  she  asked,  with  angry  suddenness. 

'•  Yes,  yes,"  I  said ;  "  I  will  help  you  ;  and  you  will  soon  rem.ember. 
I  asked  you  to  see  Miss  Fauiie  to-morrow,  and  to  tell  her  the  truth 
about  the  letter." 

"Ah  !  Miss  Fairlie — Fairlie — Fairlie — " 

The  mere  utterance  of  the  loved,  fiimiliar  name  seemed  to  quiet 
her.     Her  face  softened  and  grew  like  itself  again. 

"  You  need  have  no  fear  of  Miss  Fairlie,"  I  continued ;  "  and  no 
fear  of  getting  into  trouble  through  the  letter.     She  knows  so  much 


94  'I'llH    WOMAN     IN     WliriE. 

al)out  it  ;ilrt;i(ly,  that  you  \vill  have  no  difficulty  in  telling  licr  all. 
There  ("in  l)e  little  necessity  for  concealment  \vherc  there  is  hardly 
any  thing  left  to  conceal.  You  mention  no  names  in  the  letter ;  but 
Miss  Fairlie  knows  that  the  i)erson  you  write  of  is  Sir  Percival 
Glydc— " 

The  instant  I  pronounced  that  name  she  started  to  her  feet,  and 
a  scream  burst  from  her  that  rang  through  the  church -yard  and 
made  my  heart  Icaj)  in  mc  with  the  terror  of  it.  The  dark  deform- 
ity of  the  expression  ^vhich  had  just  left  her  face,  lowered  on  it  once 
more,  with  doubled  and  trebled  intensity.  The  shriek  at  the  name, 
the  reiterated  look  of  hatred  and  fear  that  instantly  followed,  told 
all.  Not  even  a  last  doubt  now  remained.  Her  mother  was  guilt- 
less of  imprisoning  her  in  the  Asylum.  A  man  had  shut  her  up — 
and  that  man  was  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 

The  scream  had  reached  other  ears  than  mine.  On  one  side,  I 
heard  the  door  of  the  sexton's  cottage  open ;  on  the  other  I  heard 
the  voice  of  her  companion,  the  "vvomau  in  the  shawl,  the  woman 
whom  she  had  spoken  of  as  ]\Irs.  Clements. 

"I'm  coming!  I'm  coming!"  cried  the  voice,  from  behind  the 
clump  of  dw^arf  trees. 

In  a  moment  more,  Mrs.  Clements  hurried  into  view. 

"  Who  arc  you  V  she  (^ried,  facing  me  resolutely,  as  she  set  her 
foot  on  the  stile.  "  How  dare  you  frighten  a  poor  helpless  woman 
iike  that  ?" 

She  was  at  Anne  Catherick's  side,  and  had  put  one  arm  around 
her,  before  I  could  answer.  "What  is  it,  my  dear?''  she  said. 
"  What  has  he  done  to  you  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  the  jDoor  creature  answered.  "  Nothing.  I'm  only 
frightened." 

Mrs.  Clements  turned  on  me  with  a  fearless  indignation,  for  w^hich 
I  respected  her. 

"I  should  be  heartily  ashamed  of  myself  if  I  deserved  that  angry 
look,"  I  said.  "But  I  do  not  deserve  it.  I  have  unfortunately 
startled  her,  without  intending  it.  This  is  not  the  first  time  she  has 
seen  me.  Ask  her  yourself,  and  she  will  tell  you  that  I  am  incapable 
of  willingly  harming  her  or  any  w^oman." 

I  spoke  distinctly,  so  that  Anne  Catherick  might  hear  and  un- 
derstand me;  and  I  saw  that  the  words  and  their  meaning  had 
reached  her. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said ;  "  he  was  good  to  me  once ;  he  helped  me — " 
She  whisj)ered  the  rest  into  her  friend's  ear. 

"  Strange,  indeed  !''  said  Mrs.  Clements,  with  a  look  of  perplexity. 
"  It  makes  all  the  difference,  though.  I'm  soriy  I  spoke  so  rough  to 
you,  sir;  l)ut  you  must  own  thvt  appearances  looked  suspicious  to 
a  stranger.     It's  more  my  fault  than  yours,  for  humoring  her  whims, 


THE    AVOMAX    IN    AVHITE.  95 

and  letting  lier  be  alone  in  such  a  place  as  tliis.  Come,  my  dear — 
come  home  now."' 

I  thought  the  good  woman  looked  a  little  uneasy  at  the  prospect 
of  the  walk  back,  and  I  offered  to  go  with  them  until  they  were 
both  within  sight  of  home.  'Mis.  Clements  thanked  me  civilly,  and 
declined.  She  said  they  were  sure  to  meet  some  of  the  farm-labor- 
ers, as  soon  as  they  got  to  the  moor. 

"  Try  to  forgive  me,"  I  said,  when  Anne  Catherick  took  her  friend's 
arm  to  go  away.  Innocent  as  I  had  been  of  any  intention  to  tcnlfy 
and  agitate  her,  my  heart  smote  me  as  I  looked  at  the  poor,  pale, 
frightened  face. 

"  I  ^^'ill  try,"  she  answered.  "  But  you  know  too  much  ;  I'm  afraid 
you'll  always  frighten  me  now." 

Mrs.  Clements  glanced  at  me,  and  shook  her  head  pityingly. 

"  Good-night,  sir,''  she  said.  "  You  couldn't  help  it,  I  know ;  but 
I  wish  it  was  me  you  had  frigiitened,  and  not  her." 

They  moved  away  a  few  steps.  I  thought  they  had  left  me ;  but 
Anne  suddenly  stoj^ped,  and  separated  herself  from  her  friend. 

"  Wait  a  little,''  she  said.     "  I  must  say  good-bye." 

She  returned  to  the  grave,  rested  both  hands  tenderly  on  the  mar- 
ble cross,  and  kissed  it. 

"  I'm  better  now,"  she  sighed,  looking  up  at  me  quietly.  "  I  for- 
give you." 

She  joined  her  companion  again,  and  they  left  the  burial-ground. 
I  saw  them  stojD  near  the  church,  and  speak  to  the  sexton's  w-ife, 
who  had  come  from  the  cottage,  and  had  waited,  watching  us  from 
a  distance.  Then  they  went  on  again  up  the  path  that  led  to  the 
moor.  I  looked  after  Anne  Catherick  as  she  disappeared,  till  all 
trace  of  her  had  faded  in  the  twilight — looked  as  anxiously  and 
sorrowfully  as  if  that  was  the  last  I  was  to  see  in  this  weary  world 
of  the  woman  in  white. 

xrv. 

Half  an  hour  later,  I  was  back  at  the  house,  and  was  informing 
Miss  Halcombe  of  all  that  had  happened. 

She  listened  to  me  from  beginning  to  end,  with  a  steady,  silent 
attention,  which,  in  a  woman  of  her  temperament  and  disposition, 
was  the  strongest  proof  that  could  be  offered  of  the  serious  manner 
in  which  my  narrative  affected  her. 

''  My  mind  misgives  me,"  was  all  she  said  when  I  had  done.  "  My 
mind  misgives  me  sadly  about  the  future.'' 

''The  future  may  dei3end,"  I  suggested,  'on  the  use  we  make  of 
the  i)resent.  It  is  not  improbable  that  Anne  Catherick  may  sj^eak 
more  readily  and  unreservedly  to  a  woman  than  she  has  s2X)kcn  to 
me.     If  Miss  Fairlie — '' 


96  Tin:  woman  in  white. 

'*  Not  to  l)c  thought  of  for  a  moment,"  inteq^oscd  Miss  Halcombe, 
in  her  most  decided  manner, 

"  Let  me  sii«?,i?est,  then,"  I  continued,  '■  that  you  should  see  Anne 
Catherick  yourself,  and  do  all  you  can  to  win  her  coniSdence.  For 
my  own  part,  I  shrink  from  the  idea  of  alarming  the  poor  creature  a 
second  time,  as  I  liavc  most  unhappily  alarmed  her  already.  Do 
you  see  any  oljjection  to  accompanying  me  to  the  farm-house  to-mor- 
row ?" 

"■  None  whatever.  I  will  go  anywhere  and  do  any  thing  to  sei*ve 
Laura's  interests.     What  did  you  say  the  place  was  called  ?"' 

"  You  must  know  it  well.     It  is  called  Todd's  Corner." 

"  Certainly.  Todd's  Comer  is  one  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  farms.  Our 
dair3'-maid  here  is  the  farmer's  second  daughter.  She  goes  back- 
ward and  forward  constantly,  between  this  house  and  her  f^ither's 
farm ;  and  she  may  have  heard  or  seen  something  which  it  may  be 
useful  to  us  to  know.  Shall  I  ascertain,  at  once,  if  the  girl  is  down 
stairs  ?" 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  the  servant  with  his  message.  He  re- 
turned, and  announced  that  the  dairy-maid  was  then  at  the  farm. 
She  had  not  been  there  for  the  last  three  days ;  and  the  housekeep- 
er had  given  her  leave  to  go  home,  for  an  hour  or  two,  that  evening. 

"  I  can  speak  to  her  to-morrow,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  when  the 
servant  had  left  the  room  again.  "  In  the  mean  time,  let  me  thor- 
oughly understand  the  object  to  be  gained  by  my  interview  with 
Anne  Catherick.  Is  there  no  doubt  in  your  mind  that  the  person 
who  confined  her  in  the  Asylum  was  Sir  Pcrcival  Glyde  ?" 

''  There  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  The  only  mystery  that  re- 
mains, is  the  mystery  of  his  motive.  Looking  to  the  great  difference 
between  his  station  in  life  and  hers,  which  seems  to  preclude  all  idea 
of  the  most  distant  relationship  between  them,  it  is  of  the  last  im- 
portance— even  assuming  that  she  really  required  to  be  placed  un- 
der restraint — to  know  why  he  should  have  been  the  person  to  as- 
sume the  serious  responsibility  of  shutting  her  up — " 

"  In  a  private  Asylum,  I  think  you  said  ?'' 

''  Yes,  in  a  private  Asylum,  where  a  sum  of  money  which  no  poor 
person  could  afford  to  give  must  have  been  piiid  for  her  mainte- 
nance as  a  patient." 

"  I  see  where  the  doubt  lies,  Mr.  Hartright ;  and  I  promise  you 
that  it  shall  be  set  at  rest,  M'hether  Anne  Catherick  assists  us  to- 
morrow or  not.  Sir  Percival  Glyde  shall  not  be  long  in  this  house 
without  satisfying  Mr.  Gilmore,  and  satisfying  me.  INIy  sister's  fu- 
ture is  my  dearest  care  in  life  ;  and  I  have  influence  enough  over 
lier  to  give  me  some  power,  where  her  marriage  is  concerned,  in  the 
disposal  of  it." 

We  parted  for  the  night. 


TUE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  9/ 

After  breakfast,  the  next  morning,  an  obscacle,  wliicli  the  events 
of  the  evening  before  had  put  out  of  my  memory,  inteiposed  to  pre- 
vent our  proceeding  immediately  to  the  farm.  This  was  my  last 
day  at  Limmeridge  House ;  and  it  was  necessary,  as  soon  as  the  post 
came  in,  to  follow  Miss  Halcombe's  advice,  and  to  ask  IVIr,  Fairlie's 
permission  to  shorten,  my  engagement  by  a  month,  in  consideration 
of  an  unforeseen  necessity  for  my  return  to  London. 

Fortunately  for  the  probability  of  this  excuse,  so  fur  as  appear- 
ances were  concerned,  the  post  brought  me  two  letters  from  London 
friends,  that  morning.  I  took  them  away  at  once  to  my  own  room ; 
and  sent  the  servant  with  a  message  to  Mr.  Fairiie,  requesting  to 
know  when  I  could  see  him  on  a  matter  of  business. 

I  awaited  the  man's  return,  free  from  the  slightest  feeling  of  anx-^ 
iety  about  the  manner  in  which  his  master  might  receive  my  appli- 
cation. With  Mr.  Fairlie's  leave  or  without  it,  I  must  go.  The  con- 
sciousness of  having  now  taken  the  first  step  on  the  cheary  journey 
which  was  henceforth  to  separate  my  life  from  Miss  Fairlie's  seemed 
to  have  blunted  my  sensibility  to  every  consideration  connected  with 
myself.  I  had  done  with  my  poor  man's  touchy  pride ;  I  had  done 
with  all  my  little  artist  vanities.  No  insolence  of  jVL*.  Fairlie's,  if  he 
chose  to  be  insolent,  could  wound  me  now. 

The  servant  returned  with  a  message  for  which  I  was  not  unpre- 
pared. Mr.  Fairiie  regretted  that  the  state  of  his  health,  on  that 
particular  morning,  was  such  as  to  preclude  all  hope  of  his  having 
the  pleasure  of  receiving  me.  He  begged,  therefore,  that  I  would 
accept  his  apologies,  and  kindly  communicate  what  I  had  to  say,  in 
the  form  of  a  letter.  Similar  messages  to  this  had  reached  me,  at 
various  intervals,  duiing  my  three  months'  residence  in  the  house. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  that  period,  Mr.  Fairiie  had  been  rejoiced 
to  ''possess"  me,  but  had  never  been  well  enough  to  see  me  for  a 
second  time.  The  servant  took  every  fresh  batch  of  drawings  that 
I  mounted  and  restored,  back  to  his  master,  yviih  my  "respects;'"' 
and  returned  empty-handed  with  Mr.  Fairlie's  "kind  compliments," 
"best  thanks,"  and  "sincere  regrets"  that  the  state  of  his  health 
still  obliged  him  to  remain  a  solitary  prisoner  in  his  own  room.  A 
more  satisfactory  arrangement  to  both  sides  could  not  possibly  have 
been  adopted.  It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  of  us,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, felt  the  most  grateful  sense  of  obligation  to  Mr.  Fairlie's 
accommodating  ner^-es, 

I  sat  down  at  once  to  write  the  letter,  expressing  myself  in  it  as 
civilly,  as  clearly,  and  as  briefly  as  possible.  Mr.  Fairiie  did  not  hur- 
ry his  reply.  Nearly  an  hour  elapsed  before  the  answer  was  placed 
in  my  hands.  It  was  written  with  beautiful  regularity  and  neatness  of 
character,  in  violet-colored  ink,  on  note-paper  as  smooth  as  ivory  and 
almoiit  as  thick  as  card-board  ;  and  it  addres.sed  nie  in  these  terms: 


./ 


98  THE    WOMAN    IN    WIIITK. 

"Mr.  Fairlii's  compliments  to  Mr.  Hartriglit.  Mr.  Fairlie  is  more 
surprised  iiiid  disaj)p()inte(l  than  he  can  say  (in  the  present  state  of 
liis  heahli)  by  Mr.  Ilurtright's  application.  Mr.  Fairlie  is  not  a  man 
of  business,  but  lie  has  consulted  his  steward,  wlio  is,  and  that  per- 
son contirms  Mr.  Faii'lie's  opinion  that  Mr.  Hartright's  request  to  be 
allov/ed  to  break  his  engagement  can  not  be  justified  by  any  neces- 
sity whatever,  excepting  perhaps  a  case  of  life  and  death.  If  the 
highly-appreciative  feeling  toward  Art  and  its  professors,  which  it 
is  the  consolation  and  happiness  of  ^Ir.  Fairlie's  suffering  existence 
to  cultivate,  could  be  easily  shaken,  Mr.  Ilartright's  present  proceed- 
ing would  have  shaken  it.  It  has  not  done  go — except  in  the  in- 
stance of  Mr.  Hartright  himself. 

'*  Having  stated  his  opinion — so  far,  that  is  to  say,  as  acute  ncn-- 
ous  suffering  will  allow  him  to  state  any  thing — Mr.  Fairlie  has 
nothing  to  add  but  the  expression  of  his  decision,  in  reference  to 
the  highly  irregular  application  that  has  been  made  to  him.  Per- 
fect repose  of  body  and  mind  being  to  the  last  degree  important  in 
his  case,  Mr.  Fairlie  will  not  suffer  Mr.  Hartright  to  disturb  that  re- 
pose by  remaining  in  the  house  under  circumstances  of  an  essential- 
ly irritating  nature  to  both  sides.  Accordingly,  Mr.  Fairlie  waives 
his  right  of  refusal,  purely  with  a  view  to  the  preservation  of  his 
own  tranquillity — and  informs  Mr.  Hartright  that  he  may  go." 

I  folded  the  letter  up.  and  put  it  away  with  my  other  papers. 
The  time  had  been  when  I  should  have  resented  it  as  an  insult:  I 
accepted  it,  now,  as  a  written  release  from  my  engagement.  It  was 
off  my  mind,  it  was  almost  out  of  my  memory,  when  I  went  down 
stairs  to  the  breakfast-room,  and  infoimed  Miss  Hulcombe  that  I 
was  ready  to  walk  with  her  to  the  farm. 

"Has  Mr.  Fairlie  given  you  a  satisfactory  answer?"  she  asked,  a3 
we  left  the  house. 

''He  has  allowed  me  to  go.  Miss  Halcombe." 

She  looked  up  at  me  quickly ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time  since  I 
had  known  her,  took  my  aim  of  her  own  accord.  No  words  could 
have  expressed  so  delicately  that  she  understood  how  the  permis- 
sion to  leave  my  employment  had  been  granted,  and  that  she  gave 
me  her  sympathy,  not  as  my  superior,  but  as  my  friend.  I  had  not 
felt  the  man's  insolent  letter;  but  I  felt  deeply  the  woman's  atoning 
kindness. 

On  our  way  to  the  farm  we  arranged  that  ^liss  Halcombe  was  to 
en*er  the  house  alone,  and  that  I  was  to  Avait  outside,  within  call. 
We  adopted  this  mode  of  ])r()ceeding  from  an  apprehension  that  my 
presence,  after  Avhat  liad  lia})i)ened  in  the  church-yard  llw;  ovenmg 
l)ef()re,  nnght  have  the  effect  of  renewing  Anne  Catherick's  neiTOUS 
dread,  and  of  rendering  her  additionally  distrustfiil  of  the  ufivanccs 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  99 

of  a  lath'  wlio  vs'as  a  stranger  to  licr.  i\Iiss  Halcombe  k-ft  mc,  v.itli 
the  intention  of  speaking,  in  the  first  instance,  to  the  farmer's  wife 
(of  whose  friendly  readiness  to  help  her  in  any  way  she  was  well  as- 
sured), while  I  v.aited  for  her  in  the  near  neighborhood  of  the  house. 

I  had  fully  expected  to  be  left  alone  for  some  time.  To  my  sur- 
prise, however,  little  more  than  five  minutes  had  elapsed  before  Miss 
Halcombe  returned. 

"  Does  Anne  Catherick  refuse  to  see  you  V  I  asked,  in  astonish- 
ment. 

''  Anne  Catherick  is  gone,"  rei)lied  Miss  Halcombe. 

'•  Gone  I" 

"  Gone  with  Mrs.  Clements.  They  both  left  the  fiimi  at  eight 
o'clock  this  morning." 

I  could  say  nothing — T  could  only  feel  that  our  last  chance  of  dis- 
covery had  gone  with  them. 

''  All  that  Mrs.  Todd  knows  about  her  guests,  I  know,"  Miss  Hal- 
combe went  on;  "and  it  leaves  me,  as  it  leaves  her,  in  the  dark. 
They  both  came  back  safe,  last  night,  after  they  left  you,  and  they 
passed  the  first  part  of  the  evening  with  Mr.  Todd's  family,  as  usual. 
,Tust  before  supper-time,  however,  Anne  Catherick  startled  them  all 
oy  being  suddenly  seized  with  faintness.  She  had  had  a  similar  at- 
tack, of  a  less  alarming  kind,  on  the  day  she  arrived  at  the  form ; 
and  Mrs.  Todd  had  connected  it,  on  that  occasion,  with  something 
she  was  reading  at  the  time  in  our  local  newsjjaper,  which  lay  on 
the  farm  table,  and  which  she  had  taken  up  only  a  minute  or  two 
before." 

'•Does  Mrs.  Todd  know  what  jDarticular  passage  in  the  newspaper 
afi'ected  her  in  that  way  ?"  I  inquired, 

'•  Ko,"  replied  Miss  Halcombe.  "  She  had  looked  it  over,  and  had 
seen  nothing  in  it  to  agitate  any  one.  I  asked  leave,  however,  to 
look  it  over  in  my  turn ;  and  at  the  very  first  page  I  opened,  I  found 
that  the  editor  had  enriched  his  small  stock  of  news  by  drawing 
upon  our  family  affairs,  and  had  published  my  sister's  marriage  en- 
gagement, among  his  other  announcements,  copied  from  the  London 
papers,  of  Marriages  in  High  Life.  I  concluded  at  once  that  this 
was  the  paragraph  which  had  so  strangely  affected  Anne  Catherick ; 
and  I  thought  I  saw  in  it,  also,  the  origin  of  the  letter  which  she 
sent  to  our  house  the  next  daj*." 

''  There  can  be  no  doubt  in  either  case.  But  vviiat  did  you  hear 
about  her  second  attack  of  fliintness  yesterday  evening  ?" 

'•  Nothing.  The  cause  of  it  is  a  complete  mystery.  There  was  no 
stranger  in  the  room.  The  only  visitor  was  our  dairy-maid,  who,  as 
I  told  yo«,  is  one  of  Mr,  Todd's  daughters ;  and  the  only  conversa- 
tion was  the  usual  gossip  about  local  afiairs.  They  heard  her  cry 
out,  and  saw  her  turn  deadly  pale,  without  the  slightest  aiiparenJ^ 


100  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

reason,  jlrs.  Todd  and  Mrs.  Clements  took  her  up  stairs;  and  Mrs. 
Clenieiifft  remained  with  her.  They  -were  heard  talking  together 
until  long  after  the  usual  bed-time;  and,  early  this  moiT.ing,  Mrs. 
Clements  took  3Irs.  Todd  aside,  and  amazed  her  beyontl  all  power 
of  expression,  by  saying  that  they  must  go.  The  only  explanation 
Mrs.  Todd  could  extract  from  her  guest  was,  that  something  had 
happened,  which  was  not  the  fault  of  any  one  at  the  farm-house,  but 
wliich  was  serious  enough  to  make  Anne  Catherick  resolve  to  leave 
Limmeridge  immediately.  It  was  quite  useless  to  press  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents to  be  more  explicit.  She  only  shook  her  head,  and  said  that, 
for  Anne's  sake,  she  must  beg  and  pray  that  no  one  would  question 
her.  All  she  could  repeat,  with  every  appearance  of  being  seriously 
agitated  herself,  was  that  Anne  must  go,  that  she  must  go  with  her, 
and  that  the  destination  to  which  they  might  both  betake  them- 
selves must  be  kept  a  secret  from  every  body.  I  spare  you  the  re- 
cital of  Mrs.  Todd's  hospitable  remonstrances  and  refusals.  It  ended 
in  her  driving  them  both  to  the  nearest  station,  more  than  three 
hours  since.  [She  tried  hard,  on  the  way,  to  get  them  to  speak  more 
plainly ;  but  without  success.  And  she  set  them  down  outside  the 
station  door,  so  hurt  and  offended  by  the  unceremonious  abruptness 
of  their  departure  and  their  unfriendly  reluctance  to  place  the  least 
confidence  in  her,  that  she  drove  away  in  anger,  without  so  much  as 
stopping  to  bid  them  good-bye.  That  is  exactly  what  has  taken 
place.  Search  your  own  memory,  Mr.  Hartright,  and  tell  me  if  any 
thing  happened  in  the  burial-ground  yesterday  evening  which  can 
at  all  account  for  the  extraordinary  departure  of  those  two  women 
this  morning." 

"I  should  like  to  account  first,  Miss  Halcombe,  for  the  sudden 
change  in  Anne  Catherick  which  alarmed  them  at  the  farm-house, 
hours  after  she  and  I  had  parted,  and  when  time  enougli  had  elapsed 
to  quiet  any  violent  agitation  that  I  might  have  been  unfortunate 
enough  to  cause.  Did  you  inquire  particularly  about  the  gossip 
•which  was  going  on  in  the  room  when  she  turned  faint  ?" 

"  Yes.  But  Mrs.  Todd's  household  affairs  seem  to  have  divided 
her  attention,  that  evening,  with  the  talk  in  the  fi\rm-house  parlor. 
She  could  only  tell  me  that  it  was  'just  the  news' — meaning,  I  sup- 
pose, that  they  all  talked  as  usual  about  each  other.'' 

''  The  dairy-maid's  memorj-  may  be  better  than  her  mother's."  I 
said.  "It  may  be  as  well  for  you  to  speak  to  the  girl,  ;Miss  Hal- 
combe, as  soon  as  we  get  back." 

My  suggestion  was  acted  on  the  moment  we  returned  to  the  house. 
Miss  IIalcoml)e  led  me  round  to  the  servant's  offices,  and  we  found 
the  girl  in  the  dairy,  with  her  sleeves  tucked  up  to  her  shouldei-s, 
cleaning  a  large  milk-pan,  and  singing  blithely  over  h'  r  work. 

"I  have  brought  this  jreutleman  to  see  vour  dairv,  JIannah,''  said 


THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE.  101 

Miss  Halcombc.  "  It  is  one  of  tlie  sights  of  the  house,  and  it  always 
does  you  credit." 

The  girl  bhished  and  courtesied,  and  said,  shyly,  that  she  hoped 
she  always  did  her  best  to  keep  things  neat  and  clean. 

"  We  have  just  come  from  your  father's,"  Miss  Halcombe  contin- 
ued. "  You  were  there  yesterday  evening,  I  hear ;  and  you  found 
visitors  at  the  house  ?" 

"  Yes,  miss." 

"  One  of  them  was  taken  faint  and  ill,  I  am  told  ?  I  suppose  noth- 
ing was  said  or  done  to  frighten  her  ?  You  were  not  talking  of  any 
thing  very  terrible,  were  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  miss  I"  said  the  girl,  laughing.  "  We  were  only  talking 
of  the  news." 

"  Your  sisters  told  you  the  news  at  Todd's  Corner,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Yes,  miss." 

•'  And  you  told  them  the  news  at  Limmeridge  House  ?" 

''  Yes,  miss.  And  I'm  quite  sure  nothing  was  said  to  frighten  the 
poor  thing,  for  I  was  talking  when  she  was  taken  ill.  It  gave  me 
quite  a  turn,  miss,  to  see  it,  never  having  been  taken  ftdnt  myself." 

Before  any  more  questions  could  be  put  to  her,  she  was  called  away 
to  receive  a  basket  of  eggs  at  the  dairy  door.  As  she  left  us,  I  whis- 
\)ered  to  Miss  Halcombe : 

"  Ask  her  if  she  happened  to  mention,  last  night,  that  visitors  were 
expected  at  Limmeridge  House." 

Miss  Halcombe  show^ed  me,  by  a  look,  that  she  understood,  and  put 
the  question  as  soon  as  the  dairy-maid  returned  to  us. 

"  Oh  yes,  miss  ;  I  mentioned  that,"  said  the  girl,  simply.  "  The 
company  coming,  and  the  accident  to  the  brindled  cow,  was  all  the 
news  I  had  to  take  to  the  farm." 

"  Did  you  mention  names  ?  Did  you  tell  them  that  Sir  Percival 
Glyde  was  exj^ected  on  Monday  ?" 

"  Yes,  miss — I  told  them  Sir  Percival  Glyde  was  coming.  I  hope 
there  was  no  harm  in  it ;  I  hope  I  didn't  do  wrong." 

"Oh  no,  no  harm.  Come,  Mr.  HartwTight;  Hannah  will  begin  to 
think  us  in  the  way,  if  we  interrupt  her  any  longer  over  her  work." 

We  stopped  and  looked  at  one  another,  the  moment  we  were  alone 
again. 

"  Is  there  any  doubt  in  your  mind,  iwu\  Miss  Halcombe  ?" 

"  Sir  Percival  Glyde  shall  remove  that  doubt,  Mr.  Hartright — or, 
Laura  Faii-lie  shall  never  be  his  wife." 

XV. 

As  w^e  walked  round  to  the  front  of  the  house,  a  fly  from  the  rail- 
way apijroached  us  along  the  drive.  Miss  Halcombe  waited  on  the 
door-steps  until  the  fly  drew  up ;  and  then  advanced  to  shake  hands 


102  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

with  an  old  gentleman,  wlio  got  out  briskly  the  moment  the  steps 
were  let  down,     IMr.  Gilmorc  had  arrived. 

I  looked  at  him,  when  we  were  introduced  to  each  other,  with  an 
interest  and  a  curiosity  which  I  could  hardly  conceal.  This  old  nian 
was  to  remain  at  Limmcridge  House  after  I  had  left  it;  he  was  to 
licar  Sir  Percival  Glyde's  explanation,  and  was  to  give  Miss  Halcombe 
the  assistance  of  his  experience  informing  her  judgment;  he  was  to 
wait  until  the  question  of  the  marriage  was  set  at  rest ;  and  his  hand, 
if  that  question  were  decided  in  the  afBrmative,  was  to  draw  the 
settlement  which  bound  Miss  Fairlie  irrevocably  to  her  engagement. 
Even  then,  when  I  knew  nothing  by  comparison  with  what  I  know 
now,  I  looked  at  the  family  lawyer  with  an  interest  which  I  had  nev- 
er felt  before  in  the  presence  of  any  man  breathing  who  was  a  total 
stranger  to  me. 

In  external  appearance  Mr.  Gilmorc  was  the  exact  opposite  of  the 
conventional  idea  of  an  old  lawyer.  His  complexion  was  florid  ;  his 
white  hair  was  worn  rather  long,  and  kei)t  carefully  brushed ;  his 
black  coat,  waistcoat,  and  trowsers  fitted  him  with  perfect  neatness; 
his  white  cravat  was  carefully  tied ;  and  his  lavender-colored  kid 
gloves  might  have  adorned  the  hands  of  a  fashionable  clergyman, 
without  fear  and  without  rej)roach.  His  manners  were  pleasantly 
marked  by  the  formal  grace  and  refinement  of  the  old  school  of  po- 
liteness, quickened  by  the  invigorating  sharpness  and  readiness  of  a 
man  whose  business  in  life  obliges  him  always  to  keep  his  faculties 
in  good  working  order,  A  sanguine  constitution  and  fair  prospects 
to  begin  with  ;  a  long  subsequent  career  of  creditable  and  comfort- 
able prosperity ;  a  cheerful,  diligent,  widely  respected  old  age — such 
was  the  general  impressions  I  derived  from  my  introduction  to  Mr. 
Gilmore ;  and  it  is  but  fair  to  him  to  add,  that  the  knowledge  I 
gained  by  later  and  better  experience  only  tended  to  confirm  them. 

I  left  the  old  gentleman  and  Miss  Halcombe  to  enter  the  house 
together,  and  to  talk  of  family  matters  undisturbed  by  the  restraint 
of  a  stranger's  presence.  They  crossed  the  hall  on  their  way  to  the 
drawing-room;  and  I  descended  the  steps  again,  to  wander  about 
the  garden  alone. 

My  hours  were  numbered  at  Limmcridge  House;  my  departure 
the  next  morning  was  irrevocably  settled ;  my  share  in  the  investi- 
gation which  the  anonymous  letter  had  rendered  necessary,  was  at 
an  end.  No  harm  could  be  done  to  any  one  but  myself,  if  I  let  my 
lieart  loose  again,  for  the  little  time  that  was  left  me,  from  the  cold 
cruelty  of  restraint  which  necessity  had  forced  me  to  inflict  upon  it, 
and  took  my  farewell  of  the  scenes  which  were  associated  with  the 
brief  dream-time  of  my  happiness  and  my  love. 

I  turned  instinctively  to  the  walk  beneath  my  study  window,  where 
I  had  seen  her  the  evening  before  with  her  little  dog;  and  followed 


THE    WOTkfAN    IX    WHITE.  103 

tlic  path  wliich  her  dear  feet  had  trodden  so  often, till  I  came  to  the 
wicket-gate  that  led  into  her  rose-garden.  The  winter  bareness 
spread  drearily  over  it  now.  The  Howers  that  she  had  taught  nie  to 
distinguish  by  their  names,  the  flowers  that  I  had  taught  her  to  paint 
from,  were  gone  ;  and  the  tiny  white  paths  that  led  between  the  I.eds 
were  damp  and  green  already.  I  went  on  to  the  avenue  of  trees, 
where  we  had  breathed  together  the  warm  fragrance  of  August  even- 
ings ;  where  we  had  admired  together  the  myriad  combinations  of 
shade  and  sunlight  that  dappled  the  ground  at  our  feet.  The  leaves 
fell  about  me  from  the  groaning  branches,  and  the  earthy  decay  in 
the  atmosphere  chilled  me  to  the  bones.  A  little  farther  on,  and  I 
was  out  of  the  grounds,  and  following  the  lane  that  wound  gently 
upward  to  the  nearest  hills.  The  old  felled  tree  by  the  way-side,  on 
which  we  had  sat  to  rest,  was  sodden  with  rain ;  and  the  tuft  of  ferns 
and  grasses  which  I  had  drawn  for  her,  nestling  under  the  rough 
stone  wall  in  front  of  us,  had  turned  to  a  pool  of  water,  stagnating 
round  an  island  of  draggled  weeds.  I  gamed  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
and  looked  at  the  view  which  we  had  so  often  admired  in  the  hap- 
pier time.  It  was  cold  and  barren — it  was  no  longer  the  view  that  I 
remembered.  The  sunshine  of  her  presence  was  far  from  me ;  the 
charm  of  her  voice  no  longer  murmured  in  my  ear.  She  had  talked 
to  me,  on  the  spot  from  which  I  now  looked  down,  of  her  father,  who 
was  her  last  surviving  parent ;  had  told  me  how  fond  of  each  other 
they  had  been,  and  how  sadly  she  missed  him  still,  when  she  entered 
certain  rooms  in  the  house,  and  when  she  took  up  forgotten  occupa- 
tions and  amusements  with  which  he  had  been  associated.  Was  the 
view  that  I  had  seen,  while  listening  to  those  words,  the  view  that  I 
saw  now,  standing  on  the  hill-top  by  myself?  I  turned,  and  left  it; 
I  wound  my  way  back  again,  over  the  moor,  and  round  the  sand-hills, 
down  to  the  beach.  There  was  the  white  rage  of  the  surf,  and  the 
multitudinous  glory  of  the  leaping  waves — but  where  was  the  place 
on  which  she  had  once  drawn  idle  figures  with  her  parasol  in  the 
sand;  the  place  where  we  had  sat  together, while  she  talked  to  me 
about  myself  and  my  home,  while  she  asked  me  a  woman's  minutely- 
observant  questions  about  my  mother  and  my  sister,  and  innocently 
wondered  whether  I  should  ever  leave  my  lonely  chambers  and  have 
a  wife  and  a  house  of  my  own  ?  Wind  and  wave  had  long  since 
smoothed  out  the  trace  of  her  which  she  had  left  in  those  marks  on 
the  sand.  I  looked  over  the  wide  monotony  of  the  sea-side  prospect, 
and  the  place  in  which  we  too  had  idled  away  the  sunny  hours,  was 
as  lost  to  me  as  if  I  had  never  known  it,  as  strange  to  me  as  if  I  stood 
already  on  a  foreign  shore. 

The  empty  silence  of  the  beach  struck  cold  to  my  heart.  I  re- 
turned to  the  house  and  the  garden,  where  traces  were  left  to  speak 
of  her  at  every  turn. 


104  THE    AVOMAN    I.V    WIIITi:. 

On  the  west  tcrracc-walk  I  met  ^fr.  Gilmore.  He  was  evidently 
in  seareh  of  me,  for  lie  quiekened  his  pace  when  we  cauglit  sight  of 
each  other.  The  state  of  my  spirits  little  fitted  me  for  the  soeiety  of 
a  stranger.  But  the  meeting  was  inevitable;  and  I  resigned  myself 
to  make  the  best  of  it. 

"  You  are  the  very  person  I  wanted  to  see,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man. "I  had  two  words  to  say  to  you,  my  dear  sir;  and,  if  you 
b^ve  no  objection,  I  will  avail  myself  of  the  present  opportunity. 
To  put  it  plainly,  Miss  Halcombe  and  I  have  been  talking  over 
family  affairs — affairs  which  are  the  cause  of  my  being  here — and, 
in  the  coui-se  of  our  conversation,  she  was  naturally  led  to  tell  me  of 
this  unpleasant  matter  connected  with  the  anonymous  letter,  and  of 
the  share  which  you  have  most  creditably  and  properly  taken  in  the 
proceedings  so  far.  That  share,  I  quite  understand,  gives  you  an  in- 
terest which  you  might  not  otherwise  have  felt,  in  knowing  that  the 
future  management  of  the  investigation,  which  you  have  begun,  will 
be  placed  in  safe  hands.  My  dear  sir,  make  yourself  quite  easy  on 
that  point — it  will  be  f)laced  in  my  hands," 

''  You  are  in  every  way,  Mr.  Gilmore,  mucli  fitter  to  advise  and  to 
act  in  the  matter  than  I  am.  Is  it  an  indiscretion,  on  my  part,  to 
ask  if  you  have  decided  yet  on  a  course  of  proceeding  ?" 

"  So  far  as  it  is  possible  to  decide,  !Mr,  Hartright,  I  have  decided. 
I  mean  to  send  a  copy  of  the  letter,  accompanied  by  a  statement  of 
the  circumstances,  to  Sir  Percival  Clyde's  solicitor  in  London,  with 
whom  I  have  some  acquaintance.  The  letter  itself  I  shall  keep  here, 
to  show  to  Sir  Percival  as  soon  as  he  arrives.  The  tracing  of  the 
two  women,  I  have  already  provided  for,  by  sending  one  of  Mr. 
Fairlie's  servants  —  a  confidential  person  —  to  the  station  to  make 
inquiries:  the  man  has  his  money  and  his  directions,  and  he  will 
follow  the  women  in  the  event  of  his  finding  any  clue.  This  is  all 
that  can  be  done  until  Sir  Percival  comes  on  Monday.  I  have  no 
doubt  myself  that  every  explanation  which  can  be  expected  from  a 
gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor,  he  will  readily  give.  Sir  Percival 
stands  very  high,  sir — an  eminent  position,  a  reputation  above  suspi- 
cion— I  feel  quite  easy  about  results ;  quite  easy,  I  am  rejoiced  to  as- 
sure you.  Things  of  this  sort  happen  constantly  in  my  experience. 
Anonymous  letters  —  unfortunate  woman  —  sad  state  of  society.  I 
don't  deny  that  there  are  peculiar  complications  in  this  case  ;  but 
the  case  itself  is,  most  unhappily,  common — common." 

"  I  am  afraid,  Mr,  Gilmore,  I  have  the  misfortune  to  differ  fi'om  you 
in  the  view  I  take  of  the  case." 

"Just  so,  my  dear  sir— ^just  so.  I  am  an  old  man ;  and  I  take  the 
practical  view.  You  are  a  young  man ;  and  you  take  the  romantic 
view.  Let  us  not  dispute  about  our  views.  I  live,  professionally,  iu 
an  atmosphere  of  disputation,  Mr.  Hartright;  and  I  am  only  too  glad 


THE  Avo:srAX  ix  white.  105 

to  escape  from  it,  as  I  am  escaping  here.  We  Avill  wait  for  events — • 
yes,  yes,  yes;  we  will  wait  for  events.  Charming  place,  this.  Good 
shooting?  Probably  not  —  none  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  land  is  preserved, 
I  think.  Charming  place,  though ;  and  delightful  people.  You 
draw  and  paint,  I  hear,  Mr.  Hartright  ?  Enviable  accomplishment. 
What  style  ?'' 

We  dropped  into  general  conversation — or,  rather,  Mr.  Gilmore 
talked,  and  I  listened.  My  attention  was  far  from  him,  and  from 
the  topics  on  which  he  discoursed  so  fluently.  The  solitary  walk 
of  the  la3t  two  hours  had  wrought  its  efi'ect  on  me — it  had  set 
the  idea  in  my  mind  of  hastening  my  departure  from  Limmeridge 
House.  Why  should  I  prolong  the  hard  trial  of  saying  farewell  by 
one  unnecessaiy  minute  ?  What  further  service  was  required  of  me 
by  any  one  ?  There  was  no  useful  purpose  to  be  served  by  my  stay 
in  Cumberland ;  there  was  no  restriction  of  time  in  the  permission 
to  leave  which  my  employer  had  granted  to  me.  Why  not  end  it, 
there  and  then  ? 

I  deteiTuined  to  end  it.  There  were  some  hours  of  daylight  still 
left — there  was  no  reason  why  my  journey  back  to  London  should 
not  begin  on  that  afternoon.  I  made  the  first  civil  excuse  that  oc- 
curred to  me  for  leaving  Mr.  Gilmore ;  and  returned  at  once  to  the 
liouse. 

On  my  way  up  to  my  own  room,  I  met  Miss  Halcombe  on  the 
Gtairs.  She  saw,  by  the  hurry  of  my  movements  and  the  change  in 
my  manner,  that  I  had  some  new  purpose  in  view ;  and  asked  what 
had  happened. 

I  told  her  the  reasons  which  induced  me  to  think  of  hastening  my 
departure,  exactly  as  I  have  told  them  here. 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  earnestly  and  kindly,  "leave  us  like  a  friend; 
break  bread  with  us  once  more.  Stay  here  and  dine ;  stay  here  and 
help  us  to  spend  our  last  evening  with  you  as  happily,  as  like  our 
first  evenings,  as  we  can.  It  is  my  invitation ;  Mrs.  Vesey's  invita- 
tion— "  She  hesitated  a  little,  and  then  added,  "  Laura's  invitation 
as  well." 

I  promised  to  remain.  God  knows  I  had  no  wish  to  leave  even 
the  shadow  of  a  sorrowful  impression  with  any  one  of  them. 

^ly  own  room  was  the  best  place  for  me  till  the  dinner-bell  rang. 
I  waited  there  till  it  was  time  to  go  down  stairs. 

I  had  not  spoken  to  Miss  Fairlie — I  had  not  even  seen  her — all 
that  day.  The  first  meeting  with  her,  when  I  entered  the  drawing- 
i-oom,  was  a  hard  trial  to  her  self-control  and  to  mine.  She,  too,  had 
done  her  best  to  make  our  last  evening  renew  the  golden  by-gone 
time — the  time  that  could  never  come  again.  She  had  put  on  the 
dress  which  I  used  to  admire  more  than  any  other  that  she  possessed 
— a  dark  blue  silk,  trimmed  quaintly  and  prettily  with  old-fashioned 


106  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVUITE. 

lace;  she  came  forward  to  meet  mc  witli  her  former  readiness;  she 
gave  me  her  hand  with  the  frank,  innocent  good-will  of  happier 
days.  The  cold  fingers  that  trembled  round  mine;  the  j^ale  cheeks 
with  a  bright  red  spot  burning  in  the  midst  of  them;  the  faint  smile 
that  struggled  to  live  on  her  lips  and  died  away  from  them  while  I 
looked  at  it,  told  me  at  what  sacrifice  of  herself  her  outward  com- 
posure was  maintained.  My  heart  could  take  her  no  closer  to  me, 
or  I  should  have  loved  her  then  as  I  had  never  loved  her  yet. 

Mr.  Gilmore  was  a  great  assistance  to  us.  He  was  in  high  good- 
humor,  and  he  led  the  conversation  with  unflagging  spirit.  Miss 
Ilalcomlje  seconded  him  resolutely ;  and  I  did  all  I  could  to  follow 
her  example.  The  kind  blue  eyes  whose  slightest  changes  of  ex- 
pression I  had  learned  to  inteq^ret  so  well,  looked  at  mc  appealing- 
ly  when  we  first  sat  down  to  table.  Help  my  sister — the  sweet  anx- 
ious face  seemed  to  say — help  my  sister  and  you  will  help  me. 

We  got  through  the  dinner,  to  all  outward  appearance  at  least, 
happily  enough.  When  the  ladies  had  risen  from  table,  and  Mr. 
Gilmore  and  I  were  left  alone  in  the  dining-room,  a  new  interest  pre- 
sented itself  to  occupy  our  attention,  and  to  give  me  an  opportunity 
of  quieting  myself  by  a  few  minutes  of  needful  and  welcome  silence. 
The  servant  who  had  been  dispatched  to  trace  Anne  Catherick  and 
Mrs.  Clements,  returned  with  his  report,  and  was  shown  into  the 
dining-room  immediately. 

"  Well,"'  said  Mr.  Gilmore,  "  what  have  you  found  out  ?"' 

"I  have  found  out,  sir,''  answered  the  man,  ''that  both  the  women 
took  tickets,  at  our  station  here,  for  Carlisle." 

"  You  went  to  Carlisle,  of  course,  when  you  heard  that  ?" 

""' I  did,  sir;  but  I  am  sorrj'  to  say  I  could  find  no  further  trace  of 
them." 

"  You  inquired  at  the  railway  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"And  at  the  different  inns?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  left  the  statement  I  wrote  for  you,  at  the  police  sta- 
tion ?" 

"  I  did,  sir." 

"Well,  my  friend,  you  have  done  all  you  could,  and  I  have  done 
all  I  could ;  and  there  the  matter  must  rest  till  further  notice.  We 
have  played  our  trump  cards,  Mr.  Hartright,"  continued  the  old  gen- 
tleman, when  the  servant  had  withdrawn.  ''  For  the  present,  at 
least,  the  women  have  outmanoeuvred  us ;  and  our  only  resource, 
now,  is  to  wait  till  Sir  Percival  Glyde  comes  here  on  Monday  next. 
Won't  you  fill  your  glass  again  ?  Good  bottle  of  port,  that — sound, 
substantial,  old  wine.     I  liave  got  better  in  my  own  cellar,  though." 

We  returned  to  the  drawing-room — the  room  in  which  the  hap- 


THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE.  107 

piest  evenings  of  my  life  liad  been  passed ;  the  room  w  liich,  after 
this  last  night,  I  was  never  to  see  again,  its  aspect  was  altered 
since  the  days  had  shortened  and  the  weather  had  grown  cold.  The 
glass  doors  on  the  terrace  side  were  closed,  and  hidden  by  thick  cur- 
tains. Instead  of  the  soft  twilight  obscurity,  in  which  we  used  to 
sit,  the  bright  radiant  glov^  of  lamp-light  now  dazzled  my  eyes.  All 
was  changed — indoors  and  out,  all  was  changed. 

Miss  Halcombe  and  Mr.  Gilmore  sat  down  together  at  the  card- 
table;  ]VIi-s.  Vesey  took  her  customary  chair.  There  was  no  re- 
straint on  the  disposal  of  their  evening ;  and  I  felt  the  restraint  on 
the  disposal  of  mine  all  the  more  painfully  from  observing  it.  I  saw 
Miss  Fairlie  lingering  near  the  music-stand.  The  time  had  been 
when  I  might  have  joined  her  there.  I  waited  irresolutely — I  knew 
neither  where  to  go  nor  what  to  do  next.  She  cast  one  quick 
glance  at  me,  took  a  piece  of  music  suddenly  from  the  stand,  and 
came  toward  me  of  her  own  accord. 

"  Shall  I  play  some  of  those  little  melodies  of  Mozart's,  which  you 
used  to  like  so  much  V  she  asked,  opening  the  music  nervously,  and 
looking  down  at  it  while  she  spoke. 

Before  I  could  thank  her,  she  hastened  to  the  piano.  The  chair 
near  it,  which  I  had  alvrays  been  accustomed  to  occupy,  stood  emp- 
ty. She  struck  a  few  chords— then  glanced  round  at  me — then 
looked  back  again  at  her  music. 

"  Won't  you  take  your  old  j^lace  V  she  said,  siDcaking  very  abrupt- 
ly, and  in  very  low  tones. 

"  I  may  take  it  on  the  last  night,"  I  answered. 

She  did  not  reply :  she  kept  her  attention  riveted  on  the  music-r 
music  which  she  knew  by  memorj',  which  she  had  played  over  ancl 
over  again,  in  former  times,  without  the  book.  I  only  knew  that 
she  had  heard  me,  I  only  knew  that  she  was  aware  of  my  being 
close  to  her,  by  seeing  the  red  spot  on  the  cheek  that  was  nearest 
to  me,  fade  out,  and  the  face  grow  pale  all  over. 

"I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going,"  she  said,  her  voice  almost  sink- 
ing to  a  whisper ;  her  eyes  looking  more  and  more  intently  at  the 
music ;  her  fingers  flying  over  the  keys  of  the  piano  with  a  strange 
feverish  energy  which  I  had  never  noticed  in  her  before. 

"I  shall  remember  those  kind  words,  Miss  Fairlie,  long  after  to- 
morrow has  come  and  gone." 

The  paleness  grew  whiter  on  her  face,  and  she  turned  it  farther 
away  from  me. 

"Don't  speak  of  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "Let  the  music  speak  to 
us  of  to-night,  in  a  happier  language  than  ours." 

Her  lips  trembled — a  faint  sigli  fluttered  from  them,  which  she 
tried  vainly  to  suppress.  Her  fingers  wavered  on  the  piano;  she 
struck  a  false  note ;  confused  herself  in  trying  to  set  it  right ;  and 


108  THE    WOMAN    IX    WIITTE. 

dropped  her  hands  fin;rrily  on  licr  lap.  Miss  Ilalcombc  iind  Mr, 
Gihnorc  looked  up  in  astonishment  from  the  card-table  at  wliicli 
they  were  inlaying.  Even  Mrs.  Vesey,  dozing  in  her  chair,  woke  at 
the  sudden  cessation  of  the  music,  and  inquired  what  had  hap- 
pened. 

"  You  play  at  whist,  Mr,  Hartright  ?"  asked  Miss  Halcombe,  with 
her  eyes  directed  significantly  at  the  place  I  occupied. 

I  knew  what  she  meant ;  I  knew  she  was  right ;  and  I  rose  at 
once  to  go  to  the  card-table.  As  I  left  the  piano,  Miss  Fairlie  turned 
a  page  of  the  music,  and  touched  the  keys  again  with  a  surer  hand. 

"  I  icill  play  it,"  she  said,  striking  the  notes  almost  passionately. 
"I  will  play  it  on  the  last  night." 

"  Come,  Mrs.  Vesey,"  said  Miss  Halcombe ;  "  Mr.  Gilmore  and  I  are 
tired  of  dearth — come  and  be  Mr.  Hartright's  j^artner  at  whist." 

The  old  lawyer  smiled  satirically.  His  had  been  the  winning 
hand;  and  he  had  just  turned  up  a  king.  He  evidently  attributed 
Miss  Halcombe's  abrupt  change  in  the  card-table  arrangements  to  a 
lady's  inability  to  play  tlie  losing  game. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  passed  without  a  word  or  a  look  from  her. 
She  kept  her  place  at  the  piano ;  and  I  kept  mine  at  the  card-table. 
She  i^layed  unintermittingly — played  as  if  the  music  was  her  only 
refuge  from  herself.  Sometimes  her  fingers  touched  the  notes  with 
a  lingering  fondness,  a  soft,  plaintive,  dying  tenderness,  unutterably 
beautiful  and  mournful  to  hear — sometimes  they  faltered  and  failed 
her,  or  hurried  over  the  instrument  mechanically,  as  if  their  task  was 
a  burden  to  them.  But  still,  change  and  waver  as  they  might  in  the 
expression  they  imparted  to  tlie  music,  their  resolution  to  play  never 
faltered.  She  only  rose  from  the  piano  when  we  all  rose  to  say 
good-night. 

Mrs.  Vesey  was  the  nearest  to  the  door,  and  the  first  to  shake 
hands  with  me. 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  again,  Mr.  Hartright,"  said  the  old  lady.  "I 
am  truly  sorry  you  are  going  away.  You  have  been  very  kind  and 
attentive;  and  an  old  woman,  like  me,  feels  kindness  and  attention. 
I  wish  you  happy,  sir — I  wish  you  a  kind  good-bye." 

Mr.  Gilmore  came  next. 

"I  hope  we  shall  have  a  future  opportunity  of  bettering  our  ac- 
quaintance, Mr.  Hartright.  You  quite  understand  a])out  that  little 
matter  of  Inisiness  being  safe  in  my  hands?  Yes,  yes,  of  course. 
Bless  me,  hov  cold  it  is !  Don't  let  me  keep  j'ou  at  the  door.  Bon 
voyage,  my  dear  sir — bon  voyage,  as  the  French  say." 

Miss  Halcombe  followed. 

''  Half-past  seven  to-morrow  morning,"  she  said  ;  then  added,  in  a 
whisper, ''  I  have  heard  and  seen  more  than  you  think.  Your  con- 
duct to-night  has  made  me  your  friend  for  life." 


THE    WOMAN    IN    "WHITE.  109 

Miss  Fairlie  came  last.  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  look  at  her, 
when  I  took  her  hand,  and  when  I  thought  of  the  next  morning. 

"  My  departure  must  be  a  very  early  one,"  I  said.  "  I  shall  be 
gone,  Miss  Fairlie,  before  you — " 

"  No,  no,"  she  interposed,  hastily ;  "  not  before  I  am  out  of  my 
room.  I  shall  be  down  to  breakfast  with  Marian.  I  am  not  so  un- 
grateful, not  so  forgetful  of  the  past  three  months — " 

Her  voice  failed  her;  her  hand  closed  gently  round  mine — then 
drojDped  it  suddenly.  Before  I  could  say,  ''  Good-night,"  she  was 
gone. 

The  end  comes  fost  to  meet  me — comes  inevitably,  as  the  light  of 
the  last  morning  came  at  Limmeridge  House. 

It  was  barely  half-past  seven  when  I  went  down  stairs — but  I  found 
them  both  at  the  breakfast-table  waiting  for  me.  In  the  chill  air,  in 
the  dim  light,  in  the  gloomy  morning  silence  of  the  house,  we  three 
sat  down  together,  and  tried  to  eat,  tried  to  talk.  The  struggle  to 
preserve  appearances  was  hoj)eless  and  useless ;  and  I  rose  to  end  it. 

As  I  held  out  my  hand,  as  Miss  Halcombe,  who  was  nearest  to  me, 
took  it.  Miss  Fairlie  turned  away  suddenly,  and  hurried  from  the 
room. 

"  Better  so,"  said  Miss  Halcombe,  when  the  door  had  closed — 
"  better  so,  for  you  and  for  her." 

I  waited  a  moment  before  I  could  speak — it  was  hard  to  lose  her, 
without  a  parting  word,  or  a  parting  look.  I  controlled  myself;  I 
tried  to  take  leave  of  Miss  Halcombe  in  fitting  terms;  but  all  the 
farewell  words  i  would  fain  have  spoken,  dwindled  to  one  sentence. 

"  Have  I  deserved  that  you  should  write  to  me  ?"  was  all  I  could  say. 

"  You  have  nobly  deserved  eveiy  thing  that  I  can  do  for  you,  as 
long  as  we  both  live.     AYhatever  the  end  is,  you  shall  know  it." 

"  And  if  I  can  ever  be  of  help  again,  at  any  future  time,  long  after 
the  memory  of  my  presumption  and  my  folly  is  forgotten — " 

I  could  add  no  more.  My  voice  faltered,  my  eyes  moistened,  in 
spite  of  me. 

She  caught  me  by  both  hands — she  pressed  them  with  the  strong, 
steady  grasp  of  a  man — her  dark  eyes  glittered — her  brown  complex- 
ion flushed  deep — the  force  and  energy  of  her  face  glowed  and  grew 
beautiful  with  the  pure  inner  light  of  her  generosity  and  her  pity. 

"  I  will  trust  you — if  ever  the  time  comes,  I  will  trust  you  as  my 
friend  and  he?'  friend :  as  mij  brother  and  Jier  brother."  She  stop- 
ped ;  drew  me  nearer  to  her — the  fearless,  noble  creature — touched 
my  forehead,  sister-like,  with  her  lips ;  and  called  me  by  my  Christian 
name.  "  God  bless  you,  Walter  !"  she  said.  "  Wait  here  alone,  and 
compose  yourself — I  had  better  not  stay,  for  both  our  sakes ;  I  had 
better  see  you  go  from  the  balcony  up  stairs." 


110  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

She  left  tlie  room.  I  turned  away  toward  the  window,  where 
nothintr  faced  me  hut  the  lonely  autumn  landscape — I  turned  away 
to  master  myself,  l)efore  I,  too,  left  the  room  in  my  turn,  and  left  it 
forever. 

A  minute  passed — it  could  hardly  have  been  more — when  I  heard 
the  door  ojjen  again  softly,  and  the  rustling  of  a  woman's  dress  on 
the  carpet  moved  toward  me.  My  heart  beat  violently  as  I  turned 
round.  Miss  Fairlie  was  approaching  me  from  the  farther  end  of 
the  room. 

She  stopped  and  hesitated  when  our  eyes  met,  and  when  she  saw 
that  we  were  alone.  Then,  with  that  courage  which  women  lose  so 
often  in  the  small  emergency,  and  so  seldom  in  the  great,  she  came 
on  nearer  to  me,  strangely  pale  and  strangely  quiet,  drawing  one  hand 
after  her  along  the  table  by  which  she  walked,  and  holding  some- 
thing at  her  side,  in  the  other,  which  was  hidden  by  the  folds  of  her 
dress. 

''  I  only  went  into  the  drawing-room,"  she  said,  "  to  look  for  this. 
It  may  remind  you  of  j'our  visit  here,  and  of  the  friends  you  leave 
beliind  you.  You  told  me  I  had  improved  very  much  when  I  did  it 
— and  I  thought  you  might  like — " 

She  turned  her  head  away,  and  offered  me  a  little  sketch  drawn 
throughout  by  her  own  pencil,  of  the  summer-house  in  which  we  had 
first  met.  The  paper  trembled  in  her  hand  as  she  held  it  out  to  me 
— trembled  in  mine,  as  I  took  it  from  her. 

I  was  afraid  to  say  what  I  felt — I  only  answered  :  ''  It  shall  never 
leave  me :  all  my  life-long  it  shall  be  the  treasure  that  I  prize  most. 
I  am  very  grateful  for  it — very  grateful  to  you.  for  not  letting  me  go 
away  without  bidding  you  good-bye." 

"  Oh  !"  she  said,  innocently,  "  how  could  I  let  you  go,  after  we  have 
passed  so  many  happy  days  together !" 

"  Those  days  may  never  return,  Miss  Fairlie — my  way  of  life  and 
yours  are  very  far  apart.  But  if  a  time  should  come,  when  the  de- 
votion of  my  whole  heart  and  soul  and  strength  will  give  you  a  mo- 
ment's happiness,  or  spare  you  a  moment's  sorrow,  will  you  try  to  re- 
member the  poor  drawing-master  who  has  taught  you  ?  IVIiss  Hal- 
combe  has  promised  to  trust  me — will  you  promise,  too  ?" 

The  farewell  sadness  in  the  kind  blue  eyes  shone  dimly  through 
her  gathering  tears. 

"  I  promise  it,"  she  said,  in  broken  tones.  "  Oh,  don't  look  at  me 
like  that !     I  promise  it  with  all  my  heart." 

I  ventured  a  little  nearer  to  her,  and  held  out  my  hand. 

"You  luive  many  friends  who  love  you,  IMiss  Fairlie.  Your  happy 
future  is  the  dear  object  of  many  hopes.  May  I  say,  at  parting,  that 
it  is  the  dear  object  of  my  hopes  too  V 

The  tears  flowed  fast  down  her  cheeks.     She  rested  one  trembling 


,l!l|»f!ii, 


MY  HEAD  DROOPED    OVEK   IT,  MY   TEARS   FELL    ON   IT,   MY   LIl'S   PRESSED  11^ 


THE    AVOilAX    IX    WHITE.  113 

hand  on  tlie  tabic  to  steady  herself,  ■udiile  she  gave  me  the  other.  1 
took  it  in  mine — I  held  it  fast.  My  head  drooped  over  it,  my  tears 
fell  on  it,  my  lips  pressed  it — not  in  love ;  oh.  not  in  love,  at  that  la>t 
moment,  but  in  the  agony  and  the  self-abandonment  of  despair. 

"  For  God's  sake,  leave  me  I"  she  said,  faintly. 

The  confession  of  her  heart's  secret  burst  from  her  in  those  plead- 
ing words.  I  had  no  right  to  hear  them,  no  right  to  answer  them : 
they  were  the  words  that  banished  me,  in  the  name  of  her  sacred 
weakness,  from  the  room.  It  was  all  over.  I  dropped  her  hand  ;  I 
said  no  more.  The  blinding  tears  shut  her  out  from  my  eyes,  and  I 
dashed  them  away  to  look  at  her  for  the  last  time.  One  look  as  she 
sank  into  a  chair,  as  her  arms  fell  on  the  table,  as  her  fair  head  drop- 
ped on  them  Mearily.  One  farewell  look ;  and  the  door  had  closed 
upon  her — the  great  gulf  of  separation  had  opened  between  us — the 
image  of  Laura  Fairlie  was  a  memory  of  the  past  already. 


The  Story  continued  hij  Yixcext  Gilmore,  of  Chancery 
Ijiuie,  Solicitor. 
I. 
I  WRITE  these  lines  at  the  request  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Walter  Hart- 
right.     They  are  intended  to  convey  a  description  of  certain  events 
which  seriously  aifected  Miss   Fairlie's  interests,  and  which   took 
place  after  the  period  of  Mr.  Hartnght's  departure  from  Limmer- 
idge  House. 

There  is  no  need  for  me  to  say  whether  my  own  opinion  docs  or 
does  not  sanction  the  disclosure  of  the  remarkable  family  story,  of 
which  my  nan-ative  forms  an  important  component  j^art.  Mr.  Hart- 
right  has  taken  that  responsibility  on  himself;  and  circumstances 
yet  to  be  related  will  show  that  he  has  amply  earned  the  right  to 
do  so,  if  he  chooses  to  exercise  it.  The  j^lan  he  has  adopted  for 
presenting  the  story  to  others,  in  the  most  truthful  and  most  vivid 
manner,  requires  that  it  should  be  told,  at  each  successive  stage  in 
the  marcb  of  events,  by  the  persons  who  were  directly  concerned  in 
those  events  at  the  time  of  their  occurrence.  My  appearance  here, 
as  narrator,  is  the  necessary  consequence  of  this  arrangement.  I  wap 
present  during  the  sojourn  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde  in  Cumberland,  and 
was  personally  conceiTied  in  one  important  result  of  his  short  resi- 
dence under  Mr.  Fairlie's  roof.  It  is  my  duty,  therefore,  to  add  these 
new  links  to  the  chain  of  events,  and  to  take  up  the  chain  itself  at 
the  point  where,  for  the  present  only,  Mr.  Hartright  has  dropped  it. 

I  arrived  at  Limmeridge  House  on  Friday,  the  second  of  Novem- 
ber. 


114  Tin:  WOMAN  in  white. 

My  ohject  was  to  remain  at  Mr.  Fairlie's  until  the  arrival  of  Sir 
Percival  Glyde.  If  that  event  led  to  the  appointment  of  any  given 
day  for  Sir  Percival's  union  Avith  Miss  Fairlie,  I  was  to  take  the  nec- 
essary instructions  back  with  me  to  London,  and  to  occupy  myself  in 
drawing  the  lady's  marriage-settlement. 

On  the  Friday  I  was  not  fovored  ])y  IMr.  Fairlie  with  an  interview. 
He  had  been,  or  had  fancied  himself  to  be,  an  invalid  for  years  past ; 
and  he  was  not  well  enough  to  receive  me.  Miss  Halcombe  was  the 
first  memljcr  of  the  family  whom  I  saw.  She  met  me  at  the  house 
door;  and  introduced  me  to  Mr.  Hartright,  who  had  been  staying  at 
Limmeridge  for  some  time  past. 

I  did  not  see  3Iiss  Fairlie  until  later  in  the  day,  at  dinner-time. 
She  was  not  looking  well,  and  I  was  sorry  to  observe  it.  She  is  a 
sweet  lovable  girl,  as  amiable  and  attentive  to  every  one  about  her 
as  her  excellent  mother  used  to  be — though,  personally  speaking, 
she  takes  after  her  father.  Mrs.  Fairlie  had  dark  eyes  and  hair; 
and  her  elder  daughter.  Miss  Ilalcombe,  strongly  reminds  me  of  her. 
Miss  Fairlie  played  to  us  in  the  evening — not  so  well  as  usual,  I 
thought.  We  had  a  rubber  at  whist ;  a  mere  profanation,  so  far  as 
play  was  concerned,  of  that  noble  game.  I  had  been  favorably  im- 
pressed by  Mr.  Hartright  on  our  first  introduction  to  one  another; 
but  I  soon  discovered  that  he  was  not  free  from  the  social  failings 
incidental  to  his  age.  There  are  three  things  that  none  of  the  young 
men  of  the  present  generation  can  do.  They  can't  sit  over  their 
wine ;  they  can't  play  at  whist ;  and  they  can't  pay  a  lady  a  com- 
pliment. Mr.  Hartright  was  no  exception  to  the  general  rule.  Oth- 
erwise, even  in  those  eaily  days  and  on  that  short  acquaintance,  he 
struck  me  as  being  a  modest  and  gentleman-like  young  man. 

So  the  Friday  passed.  I  say  nothing  about  the  more  serious  mat- 
ters which  engaged  my  attention  on  that  day — the  anonymous  letter 
to  Miss  Fairlie;  the  measures  I  thought  it  right  to  adopt  when  the 
matter  was  mentioned  to  me ;  and  the  conviction  I  entertained  that 
every  possible  explanation  of  the  circumstances  would  be  readily  af- 
forded by  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  having  all  been  fully  noticed,  as  I  un- 
derstand, in  the  narrative  which  precedes  this. 

On  the  Saturday,  ]\Ir.  Hartright  had  left  before  I  got  down  to 
breiikfast.  Miss  Fairlie  kept  her  room  all  day ;  and  Miss  Halcombe 
ai)peared  to  me  to  be  out  of  spirits.  The  house  was  not  what  it 
u.sed  to  be  in  the  time  of  Mr.  and  ]Mrs.  Philip  Fairlie.  I  took  a  walk 
by  myself  in  the  forenoon  :  and  looked  about  at  some  of  the  places 
which  I  first  eaw  when  I  was  staying  at  Limmeridge  to  transact 
family  business,  )nore  than  thirty  years  since.  They  were  not  what 
they  used  to  be  either. 

At  two  o'clock  Mr.  Fairlie  sent  to  say  he  was  well  enough  to  see 
me.     He  had  not  altered,  at  any  rate,  since  I  first  knew  llim.     His 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  115 

talk  was  to  the  same  purpose  as  usual — all  about  himself  and  his 
ailments,  his  wonderful  coins,  and  his  matchless  Rembrandt  etch- 
ings. The  moment  I  tried  to  speak  of  the  business  that  had 
brought  me  to  his  house,  he  shut  his  eyes  and  said  I  ''upset"  him. 
I  persisted  in  upsetting  him  by  returning  again  and  again  to  the 
subject.  All  I  could  ascertain  was  that  he  looked  on  his  niece's 
marriage  as  a  settled  thing,  that  her  father  had  sanctioned  it,  that 
he  sanctioned  it  himself,  that  it  was  a  desirable  mamage,  and  that 
he  should  be  personally  rejoiced  when  the  worry  of  it  was  over.  As 
to  the  settlements,  if  I  would  consult  his  niece,  and  afterward  dive 
as  deeply  as  I  pleased  into  my  own  knowledge  of  the  family  affairs, 
and  get  every  thing  ready,  and  limit  his  share  in  the  business,  as 
guardian,  to  saying.  Yes,  at  the  right  moment — why  of  course  he 
would  meet  my  views,  and  eveiT  body  else's  views,  with  infinite 
pleasure.  In  the  mean  time,  there  I  saw  him,  a  helpless  sufferer, 
confined  to  his  room.  Did  I  think  he  looked  as  if  he  wanted  teas- 
ing ?     No.     Then  why  tease  him  ? 

I  might,  perhaps,  have  been  a  little  astonished  at  this  extraordina- 
ry absence  of  all  self-assertion  on  Mr.  Fairlie's  part,  in  the  character 
of  guardian,  if  my  knowledge  of  the  family  affairs  had  not  been  suf- 
ficient to  remind  me  that  he  was  a  single  man,  and  that  he  had 
nothing  more  than  a  life-interest  in  the  Limmeridge  property.  As 
matters  stood,  therefore,  I  was  neither  surprised  nor  disappointed  at 
the  result  of  the  interview.  Mr.  Fairlie  had  simply  justified  my  ex- 
pectations— and  there  was  an  end  of  it. 

Sunday  was  a  dull  day,  out-of-doors  and  in.  A  letter  arrived  for 
me  from  Sir  Percival  Glyde's  solicitor,  acknowledging  the  receipt  of 
my  copy  of  the  anonymous  letter,  and  my  accompanying  statement 
of  the  case.  Miss  Fairlie  joined  us  in  the  afternoon,  looking  pale 
and  depressed,  and  altogether  unlike  herself.  I  had  some  talk  with 
her,  and  ventured  on  a  delicate  allusion  to  Sir  Percival.  She  list- 
ened, and  said  nothing.  All  other  subjects  she  pursued  willingly ; 
but  this  subject  she  allowed  to  drop.  I  began  to  doubt  whether  she 
might  not  be  repenting  of  her  engagement — just  as  young  ladies 
often  do,  when  repentance'  comes  too  late. 

On  Monday  Sir  Percival  Glyde  arrived. 

I  found  him  to  be  a  most  prepossessing  man,  so  far  as  manners  and 
appiearance  were  concerned.  He  looked  rather  older  than  I  had  ex- 
pected ;  his  head  being  bald  over  the  forehead,  and  his  face  some- 
what marked  and  worn.  But  his  movements  were  as  active  and  his 
spirits  as  high  as  a  young  man's.  His  meeting  with  Miss  Halcombe 
was  delightfully  hearty  and  unafiected;  and  his  reception  of  me, 
upon  my  being  presented  to  him,  was  so  easy  and  pleasant  that  we 
got  on  together  like  old  friends.  Miss  Fairlie  was  not  with  us  when 
he  arrived,  but  she  entered  the  room  about  ten  minutes  afterward. 


116  THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITP:. 

Sir  Perciviil  rose  and  i)ai(l  liis  compliments  -witli  perfect  grace.  Ills 
evident  concern  on  seeing  the  change  for  the  worse  in  the  young 
lady's  looks  was  expressed  with  a  mixture  of  tenderness  and  respect, 
with  an  unassuming  delicacy  of  tone,  voice,  and  manner,  which  did 
equal  credit  to  his  good-breeding  and  his  good  sense.  I  was  rather 
surprised,  under  these  circumstances,  to  see  that  Miss  Fairlic  contin- 
ued to  be  constrained  and  uneasy  in  his  presence,  and  that  she  took 
the  first  opportunity  of  leaving  the  room  again.  Sir  Percival  neither 
noticed  the  restraint  in  her  reception  of  him,  nor  her  sudden  with- 
drawal from  our  society.  He  had  not  obtruded  his  attentions  on 
her  while  she  was  present,  and  he  did  not  embarrass  Miss  Halcombe 
by  any  allusion  to  her  departure  when  she  was  gone.  His  tact  and 
taste  were  never  at  fault  on  this  or  on  any  other  occasion  while  I 
was  in  his  company  at  Limmeridge  House. 

As  soon  as  INIiss  Fairlie  had  left  the  room,  he  spared  us  all  em- 
barrassment on  the  subject  of  the  anonymous  letter,  by  adverting  to 
it  of  his  own  accord.  He  had  stopped  in  London  on  his  way  from 
Hampshire;  had  seen  his  solicitor;  had  read  the  documents  for- 
v.'arded  by  me  ;  and  had  traveled  on  to  Cumberland,  anxious  to  sat- 
isfy our  minds  by  the  speediest  and  the  fullest  explanation  that 
words  could  convey.  On  hearing  him  express  himself  to  this  eflect, 
I  offered  him  the  original  letter,  which  I  had  kept  for  his  inspection. 
He  thanked  me,  and  declined  to  look  at  it;  saying  that  he  had  seen 
the  copy,  and  that  he  was  quite  willing  to  leave  the  original  in  our 
hands. 

The  statement  itself,  on  which  he  immediately  entered,  was  as  sim- 
ple and  satisfactory  as  I  had  all  along  anticipated  it  would  be. 

Mrs.  Catherick,  he  informed  us,  had,  in  past  years,  laid  him  under 
some  obligations  for  faithful  services  rendered  to  his  family  connec- 
tions and  to  himself.  She  had  been  doubly  unfortunate  in  being 
married  to  a  husband  who  had  deserted  her,  and  in  having  an  only 
child  whose  mental  faculties  had  been  in  a  disturbed  condition  from 
a  very  early  age.  Although  her  marriage  had  removed  her  to  a  part 
of  Hampshire  far  distant  from  the  neighborhood  in  which  Sir  Per- 
civaFs  property  was  situated,  he  had  taken  care  not  to  lose  sight  of 
her;  his  friendly  feeling  toward  the  poor  woman,  in  consideration 
cf  her  past  services,  having  been  greatly  strengthened  by  his  admi- 
ration of  the  patience  and  courage  with  which  she  sup})orted  her 
calamities.  In  course  of  time,  the  symptoms  of  mental  affliction  in 
her  unhappy  daughter  increased  to  such  a  serious  extent,  as  to  make 
it  a  matter  of  necessity  to  place  her  under  proper  medical  care.  ^Irs. 
Catherick  herself  recognized  this  necessity ;  but  she  also  felt  the 
prejudice  common  to  persons  occupying  her  respectable  station, 
against  allowing  her  child  to  be  admitted,  as  a  pauper,  into  a  pub- 
lic Asylum.     Sir  Percival   had  respected  this  prejudice,  as  he  re- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    ^VIJITE.  117 

spected  honest  independence  of  feeling'  in  any  rank  of  life;  and  had 
resolved  to  mark  his  grateful  sense  of  3Irs.  Catherick's  early  attach- 
ment to  tlie  interests  of  himself  and  his  family,  Ijy  defraying  the  ex- 
jjense  of  her  daughter's  maintenance  in  a  trustworthy  private  Asy- 
lum. To  her  mother's  regret,  and  to  his  own  regret,  the  unfortunate 
creature  had  discovered  the  share  which  circumstances  had  induced 
him  to  take  in  placing  her  under  restraint,  and  had  conceived  the 
most  intense  hatred  and  distrust  of  him  in  consequence.  To  that 
hatred  and  distrust — which  had  expressed  itself  in  various  ways  in 
the  Asylum  —  the  anonymous  letter,  written  after  her  esca^De,  was 
plainly  attributable.  If  Miss  Halcombe's  or  Mr.  Gilmore's  recollec- 
tion of  the  document  did  not  confirm  that  view,  or  if  they  wished 
for  any  additional  particulars  about  the  Asylum  (the  address  of 
which  he  mentioned,  as  well  as  the  names  and  addresses  of  the  two 
doctors  on  whose  certificates  the  patient  Avas  admitted),  he  was 
ready  to  answer  any  question  and  to  clear  up  any  uncertainty.  lie 
had  done  his  duty  to  the  unhappy  young  woman,  by  instructing  his 
solicitor  to  spare  no  expense  in  tracing  her,  and  in  restoring  her 
once  more  to  medical  care ;  and  he  was  now  only  anxious  to  do  his 
duty  toward  Miss  Faii-lie  and  toward  her  family,  in  the  same  plain, 
straightforward  way. 

I  was  the  first  to  speak  in  answer  to  this  appeal.  My  own  course 
was  plain  to  me.  It  is  the  great  beauty  of  the  Law  that  it  can  dis- 
pute any  human  statement,  made  under  any  circumstances,  and  re- 
duced to  any  form.  If  I  had  felt  professionally  called  upon  to  set  up 
a  case  against  Sir  Percival  Clyde,  on  the  strengtlj  of  his  own  ex- 
planation, I  could  have  done  so  beyond  all  doubt.  But  my  duty  did 
not  lie  in  this  direction  :  my  function  was  of  the  purely  judicial  kind. 
I  was  to  weigh  the  explanation  we  had  just  heard  ;  to  allow  all  due 
force  to  the  high  reputation  of  the  gentleman  who  ofl'ered  it ;  and  to 
decide  honestly  whether  the  })robabilities,  on  Sir  Percival's  own 
showing,  were  i)lainly  with  him,  or  plainly  against  him.  My  own 
conviction  was  that  they  were  plainly  with  him ;  and  I  accordingly 
declared  that  his  explanation  was,  to  my  mind,  uncjuestionaljly  a 
satisfactory  one. 

Miss  Halcombe,  after  looking  at  me  very  earnestly,  said  a  few 
words,  on  her  side,  to  the  same  effect — with  a  certain  hesitation  of 
manner,  however,  which  the  circumstances  did  not  seem  to  me  to 
warrant.  I  am  unable  to  say,  positively,  whether  Sir  Percival  noticed 
this  or  not.  My  opinion  is  that  he  did  ;  seeing  that  he  pointedly  re- 
sumed the  sul)ject,  although  he  might,  now,  with  all  pro^iriety,  have 
allovv'ed  it  to  drop. 

"  If  my  plain  statement  of  facts  had  only  been  addressed  to  ~}ilr. 
Gilmorc,''  he  said, "  I  should  consider  any  further  reference  to  this 
unhapjn"  matter  as  unnecessary.     I  may  fairly  expect  Mr.  Gilinore, 


118  THE    AVO.MAN     IN     WlillK. 

as  a  geiillcman,  to  believe  me  on  my  -word;  and  ulien  he  lias  done 
nic  that  justice,  all  discussion  of  the  subject  between  us  has  come  to 
an  end.  But  my  position  with  a  lady  is  not  the  same.  I  owe  to  her, 
what  I  would  concede  to  no  man  alive — a  proof  of  the  truth  of  my 
assertion.  You  can  not  ask  for  that  proof,  Miss  Ilalcombe ;  and  it  is 
therefore  my  duty  to  you,  and  still  more  to  Miss  Fairlie,  to  offer  it. 
May  I  beg  that  you  will  write  at  once  to  the  mother  of  this  unfor- 
.tunatc  woman — to  Mrs.  Catherick — to  ask  for  lier  testimony  in  sup- 
port of  the  explanation  which  I  have  just  offered  to  you." 

I  saw  Miss  Halcombe  change  color,  and  look  a  little  uneasy.  Sir 
Pcrcival's  suggestion,  politely  as  it  was  expressed,  appeared  to  her, 
as  it  appeared  to  me,  to  point,  very  delicately,  at  the  liesitation  Avhicb 
her  manner  had  betrayed  a  moment  or  two  since. 

"  I  hope.  Sir  Percival,  you  don't  do  me  the  injustice  to  suppose 
that  I  distrust  you  V  she  said,  quickly. 

''  Certainly  not,  Miss  Halcombe.  I  make  my  proposal  purely  as  an 
act  of  attention  to  you.  Will  you  excuse  my  obstinacy  if  I  still  ven- 
ture to  press  it  ?" 

He  walked  to  the  writing-table  as  he  sjioke;  drew  a  chair  to  it; 
and  opened  the  paper  case. 

''  Let  me  beg  you  to  write  the  note,''  he  said,  "  as  a  favor  to  me. 
It  need  not  occupy  you  more  than  a  few  minutes.  You  have  only  to 
ask  Mrs.  Catherick  two  questions.  First,  if  her  daughter  was  j^laced 
in  the  Asylum  with  her  knowledge  and  approval.  Secondly,  if  the 
share  I  took  in  the  matter  was  such  as  to  merit  the  expression  of  her 
gratitude  toward  myself?  Mr.  Gilmore's  mind  is  at  ease  on  this  un- 
pleasant subject;  and  your  mind  is  at  ease — jiray  set  my  mind  at 
ease  also,  by  writing  the  note." 

"You  oblige  me  to  grant  your  request.  Sir  Percival, when  I  would 
much  rather  refuse  it."  With  those  words  Miss  Halcombe  rose  from 
her  place,  and  went  to  the  M'riting-table.  Sir  Percival  thanked  her, 
handed  her  a  pen,  and  then  walked  away  toward  the  fire-place. 
Miss  Fairlie's  little  Italian  greyhound  was  lying  on  the  rug.  He  held 
out  his  hand,  and  called  to  the  dog  good-humoredly. 

"  Come,  Nina,"  he  said  ;  "  we  remember  each  other,  don't  we  ?" 

The  little  beast,  cowardly  and  cross-grained  as  pet  dogs  usually 
are,  looked  up  at  him  sharply,  shrank  away  from  his  outstretched 
hand,  whined,  shivered,  and  hid  itself  under  a  sofa.  It  was  scarcely 
possible  that  he  could  have  been  put  out  by  such  a  trifle  as  a  dog's 
reception  of  liim — but  I  observed,  nevertheless,  that  he  walked  away 
toward  the  window  very  suddenly.  Perhaps  his  temper  is  irritable 
at  times?  If  so,  I  can  sympathize  with  him.  My  temper  is  irritable 
at  times,  too. 

Miss  Halcombe  was  not  long  in  writing  the  note.  When  it  was 
done,  slic  rose  from  the  writing-table,  and  handed  the  open  sheet  of 


THE    WOMAN   IX   WHITE.  119 

p<aper  to  Sir  Percival.  He  bowed ;  took  it  from  her ;  folded  it  up 
immediately, without  looking  at  the  contents;  sealed  it;  wrote  the 
address ;  and  handed  it  back  to  her  in  silence.  I  never  saw  any 
thing  more  gracefully  and  more  becomingly  done  in  my  life. 

''  You  insist  on  my  posting  this  letter,  Sir  Percival  V  said  Miss 
Halcombe. 

"  I  beg  you  will  post  it,"  he  answered.  "  And  now  that  it  is  writ- 
ten and  sealed  up,  allow  me  to  ask  one  or  two  last  questions  about 
the  unhappy  woman  to  whom  it  refers.  I  have  read  the  communica- 
tion which  Mr.  Gilmore  kindly  addressed  to  my  solicitor,  describing 
the  circumstances  under  which  the  writer  of  the  anonymous  letter 
was  identified.  But  there  are  certain  points  to  which  that  state- 
ment does  not  refer.     Did  Anne  Catherick  see  Miss  Fairlie  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,"  replied  Miss  Halcombe. 

"  Did  she  see  you  ?" 

"No." 

"  She  saw  nobody  from  the  house,  then,  except  a  certain  Mr.  Hart- 
right,  who  accidentally  met  with  her  in  the  church-yard  here?" 

"  Nobody  else," 

"  Mr.  Hartright  was  emj^loyed  at  Limmcridge  as  a  drawing-mas- 
ter, I  believe  ?  Is  he  a  member  of  one  of  the  Water-color  Soci- 
eties ?" 

"  I  believe  he  is,"  answered  Miss  Halcombe. 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  was  thinking  over  the  last  an- 
swer, and  then  added : 

"  Did  you  find  out  where  Anne  Catherick  was  living,  when  she 
was  in  this  neighborhood  ?" 

"  Yes.     At  a  farm  on  the  moor,  called  Todd's  Corner." 

"  It  is  a  duty  we  all  owe  to  the  poor  creature  herself  to  trace  her," 
continued  Sir  Percival.  '•  She  may  have  said  something  at  Todd's 
Corner  which  may  help  us  to  find  her.  I  will  go  there,  and  make 
inquiries  on  the  chance.  In  the  mean  time,  as  I  can  not  prevail  on 
myself  to  discuss  this  painful  subject  with  Miss  Fairlie,  may  I  beg, 
Miss  Halcombe,  that  you  will  kindly  undertake  to  give  her  the  nec- 
essary explanation,  deferring  it  of  course  until  you  have  received 
the  reply  to  that  note." 

Miss  Halcombe  promised  to  comply  with  his  request.  He  thauK- 
ed  her — nodded  pleasantly — and  left  us,  to  go  and  establish  himself 
in  his  own  room.  As  he  opened  the  door,  the  cross-grained  grey- 
hound poked  out  her  sharp  muzzle  from  under  the  sofa,  and  barked 
and  snapped  at  him. 

"A  good  morning's  work,  Miss  Halcombe,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  we 
were  alone.     ''  Here  is  an  anxious  day  well  ended  already." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered ;  "  no  doubt.  I  am  very  glad  your  mind  is 
satisfied." 


120  THE    WOMAN    IN     WIIITK. 

"3/y  mind  I  Surely,  with  tlitit  note  in  your  band,  your  mind  is  at 
case  too  ?'' 

''Oh  yes — how  can  it  be  otherwise?  I  know  the  thing  could  not 
be,'*  she  went  on,  speaking  more  to  herself  than  to  me ;  '•  but  I  al- 
most wish  Walter  Hartright  had  staid  here  long  enough  to  be  pres- 
ent at  the  explanation,  and  to  hear  the  proi)osal  to  me  to  write  this 
note." 

I  was  a  little  surprised — perhaps  a  little  piqued,  also — by  these 
last  words. 

'•Events,  it  is  true,  connected  Mr.  Hartright  very  remarkably  with 
the  affair  of  the  letter,"  I  said ;  "  and  I  readily  admit  that  he  con- 
ducted himself,  all  things  considered,  with  great  delicacy  and  dis- 
cretion. But  I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  useful  influ- 
ence his  presence  could  have  exercised  in  relation  to  the  effect  of  Sir 
Percival's  statement  on  your  mind  or  mine." 

'•  It  was  only  a  fiincy,"  she  said,  absently.  "  There  is  no  need  to 
discuss  it,  Mr.  Gilmore.  Your  experience  ought  to  be,  and  is,  the 
best  guide  I  can  desire." 

I  did  not  altogether  like  her  thrusting  the  whole  responsibility,  in 
this  marked  manner,  on  my  shoulders.  If  Mr.  Fairlie  had  done  it,  I 
should  not  have  been  surprised.  But  resolute,  clear-minded  Miss 
Ilalcombe  was  the  very  last  person  in  the  M'orld  whom  I  should  have 
expected  to  find  shrinking  from  the  expression  of  an  opinion  of  her 
own. 

''If  any  doubts  still  trouble  you,"  I  said,  '"why  not  mention  them 
to  me  at  once  ?  Tell  me  plainly,  have  you  any  reason  to  distrust  Sir 
Percival  Glyde  ?" 

"  None  whatever." 

"  Do  you  see  any  thing  improbable,  or  contradictory,  in  his  expla- 
nation ?" 

"  How  can  I  say  I  do,  after  the  proof  he  has  off'ercd  me  of  the 
truth  of  it  ?  Can  tlere  be  better  testimony  in  his  favor,  Mr.  Gil- 
jnore,  than  the  testimony  of  the  woman's  mother?" 

'•  Xone  better.  If  the  answer  to  your  note  of  inquiiy  proves  to  be 
satisfactory,  I,  for  one,  can  not  see  what  more  any  friend  of  Sir  Perci- 
val's can  possibly  expect  from  him." 

''  Then  we  will  post  the  note,"  she  said,  rising  to  leave  the  room. 
"  and  dismiss  all  further  reference  to  the  subject,  until  the  answer 
arrives.  Don't  attach  any  weight  to  my  hesitation.  I  can  give  no 
better  reason  for  it  than  that  I  have  l)ecn  over-anxious  about  Laura 
lately  ;  and  anxiety,  Mr.  Gilmore,  unsettles  the  strongest  of  us." 

She  left  me  abru})tly  ;  her  naturally  firm  voice  faltering  as  she 
spoke  those  last  words.  A  sensitive,  vehement.  ])nssi()nate  nature — 
a  woman  of  ten  thousand  in  these  trivial,  superficial  times.  I  had 
known  her  from  her  enrlicst  years;    I  had  seen  her  tested,  as  sho 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  121 

grew  np,  in  more  than  one  tn-ing  family  crisis,  and  my  long  expe- 
rience made  me  attacli  an  importance  to  her  hesitation  under  the 
circumstances  here  detailed,  which  I  should  certainly  not  have  felt 
in  the  case  of  another  woman,  I  could  see  no  cause  for  any  uneasi- 
ness or  any  doubt ;  but  she  had  made  me  a  little  uneasy,  and  a  little 
doubtful,  nevertheless.  In  my  youth,  I  should  have  chafed  and  fret- 
ted under  the  irritation  of  my  own  unreasonable  state  of  mind.  In 
my  age,  I  knew  better ;  and  went  out  philosophically  to  walk  it  off. 

XL 

"We  all  met  again  at  dinner-time- 
Sir  Percival  was  in  such  boisterous  high  spirits  that  I  hardly  rec- 
ognized him  as  the  same  man  whose  quiet  tact,  refinement,  and  good 
sense  had  impressed  me  so  strongly  at  the  interview  of  the  morning. 
The  only  trace  of  his  former  self  that  I  could  detect,  re-appeared,  ev- 
ery now  and  then,  in  his  manner  toward  ]VIi?s  Fairlie,  A  look  or  a 
word  from  her,  suspended  his  loudest  laugh,  checked  his  gayest  flow 
of  talk,  and  rendered  him  all  attention  to  her.  and  to  no  one  else  at 
taljle,  in  an  instant.  Although  he  never  openly  tried  to  draw  her 
into  tlie  conversation,  he  never  lost  the  slightest  chance  she  gave 
him  of  letting  her  drift  into  it  by  accident,  and  of  saying  the  words 
to  her,  under  those  favorable  circumstances,  which  a  man  with  less 
tact  and  delicacy  would  have  pointedly  addressed  to  her  the  mo- 
ment they  occurred  to  him.  Rather  to  my  surprise,  Miss  Fairlie 
appeared  to  be  sensible  of  his  attentions,  without  being  moved  by 
them.  She  was  a  little  confused  from  time  to  time,  when  he  looked 
at  her,  or  spoke  to  her ;  but  she  never  warmed  toward  him.  Rank, 
fortune,  good-breeding,  good  looks,  the  resi)ect  of  a  gentleman,  and 
the  devotion  of  a  lover,  were  all  humbly  placed  at  her  feet,  and,  so 
tar  as  appearances  went,  were  all  offered  in  vain. 

On  the  next  day,  the  Tuesday,  Sir  Percival  went  in  the  morning 
(taking  one  of  the  servants  with  him  as  a  guide)  to  Todd's  Corner. 
His  inquiries,  as  I  afterward  heard,  led  to  no  results.  On  his  return, 
he  had  an  interview  M'ith  Mr.  Fairlie;  and  in  the  afternoon  he  and 
Miss  Halcombe  rode  out  together.  Nothing  else  hapi)ened  worthy 
of  record.  The  evening  passed  as  usual.  There  was  no  change  in 
Sir  Percival,  and  no  change  in  Miss  Fairlie. 

The  Wednesday's  post  brought  with  it  an  event — the  reply  from 
Mrs.  Catherick.  I  took  a  copy  of  the  document,  which  I  have  pre- 
served, and  which  I  may  as  well  present  in  this  i3lace.  It  ran  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  Madam, — I  beg  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  your  letter,  in- 
quiring whether  my  daughter,  Anne,  was  placed  under  medical  su- 
perintendence with  my  knowledge  and  approval,  and  whether  the 

0 


122  Tin:    WOMAN    IN    ^VIIITE. 

share  taken  in  tlic  matter  ])y  SirPercival  Glyde  was  such  as  to  merit 
the  expression  of  my  gratitude  toward  that  gentleman.  Be  pleased 
to  accej^t  my  answer  in  the  affirmative  to  both  those  questions,  and 
believe  me  to  remain,  your  obedient  servant, 

"Jake  Akne  Catiierick." 

Short,  sharp,  and  to  the  point :  in  form,  rather  a  business-like  letter 
for  a  woman  to  write ;  in  substance,  as  plain  a  confirmation  as  could 
be  desired  of  Sir  Percival  Glydc's  statement.  This  was  my  opinion, 
and,  with  certain  minor  reservations.  Miss  Ilalcombe's  opinion  also. 
Sir  Percival,  when  the  letter  was  shown  to  him,  did  not  appear  to 
be  struck  by  the  sharj),  short  tone  of  it.  He  told  us  that  Mrs.  Catii- 
erick was  a  ^'pman  of  iew^-weids,  a  clear-headed,  straightforward, 
unimaginative  person,  who  wrote  briefly  and  plainly,  just  as  she 
spoke. 

The  next  duty  to  be  accomplished,  now  that  the  answer  had  been 
received,  was  to  acquaint  Miss  Fairlie  with  Sir  PercivaVs  explana- 
tion. Miss  Ilalcombe  had  undertaken  to  do  this,  and  had  left  the 
room  to  go  to  her  sister,  when  she  suddenly  returned  again,  and  sat 
down  by  the  easy-chair  in  which  I  was  reading  the  newspaper.  Sir 
Percival  had  gone  out  a  minute  before  to  look  at  the  stables,  and 
no  one  was  in  the  room  but  ourselves. 

"I  suppose  we  have  really  and  truly  done  all  we  can?"  she  said, 
turning  and  twisting  Mrs.  Catherick's  letter  in  her  hand. 

"  If  we  are  friends  of  Sir  PercivaFs,  who  know  him  and  trast  him, 
we  have  done  all,  and  more  than  all,  that  is  necessary,"  I  answered, 
a  little  annoyed  by  this  rctura  of  her  hesitation.  "  But  if  we  are  en- 
emies who  sus}>ect  him — " 

"That  alternative  is  not  even  to  be  thought  of,"  she  interi)osed. 
"We  are  Sir  PercivaFs  friends;  and,  if  generosity  and  forbearance 
can  add  to  our  regard  for  him,  we  ought  to  be  Sir  PercivaFs  ad- 
mirers as  well.  You  know  that  lie  saw  Mr.  Fairlie  yesterday,  and 
that  he  aftenvard  went  out  with  me  ?" 

"  Yes.     I  saw  you  riding  away  together." 

"  We  began  the  ride  by  talking  about  Anne  Catherick,  and  about 
the  singular  manner  in  Avhich  Mr.  Ilartright  met  with  her.  But  we 
soon  dropped  that  sul)ject;  and  Sir  Percival  spoke  next,  in  the  most 
unselfish  terms,  of  his  engagement  with  Laura.  He  said  lie  had  ob- 
served that  she  was  out  of  spirits,  and  he  was  willing,  if  not  in- 
formed to  the  contrary,  to  attribute  to  that  cause  the  alteration  in 
her  manner  toward  him  during  his  present  visit.  If,  however,  there 
was  any  more  serious  reason  for  the  change,  he  would  entreat  that 
no  constraint  might  be  placed  on  her  inclinations  either  by  Mr.  Fair- 
lie  or  by  me.  All  he  asked,  in  that  case,  was  that  she  would  recall 
to  mind,  for  the  last  time,  what  the  circumstances  were  under  which 


TUE    -WOilAN    IN    WHITE.  123 

the  engagement  between  tbem  was  made,  and  what  his  conduct  had 
been  from  the  beginning  of  the  courtship  to  the  present  time.  If, 
after  due  retlectiou  on  those  two  sulijects,  she  seriously  desired  that 
he  should  withdraw  his  j^retensions  t(5  the  honor  of  becoming  her 
husband — and  if  she  would  tell  him  so  plainly,  with  her  own  lips — 
he  would  sacrifice  himself  by  leaving  her  perfectly  free  to  withdraw 
from  the  engagement." 

"  No  man  could  say  more  than  that,  Miss  Ilalcombe.  As  to  my 
experience,  few  men  in  his  situation  would  have  said  as  much." 

She  paused  after  I  had  spoken  those  words,  and  looked  at  me 
with  a  singular  exjiressiou  of  perplexity  and  distress. 

"  I  accuse  nobody  and  I  suspect  nothing,"  she  broke  out,  abruptly. 
"  But  I  can  not  and  will  not  accci)t  the  resj^onsibility  of  persuading 
Laura  to  this  marriage." 

"  That  is  exactly  the  course  Avhich  Sir  Percival  Glyde  has  himself 
requested  you  to  take,"  I  replied,  in  astonishment.  "  He  has  begged 
you  not  to  force  her  inclinations." 

"  And  he  indirectly  obliges  me  to  force  them,  if  I  give  her  his  mes- 
sage." 

"  How  can  that  possibly  be  ?" 

"  Consult  your  own  knowledge  of  Laura,  Mr.  Gilmore.  If  I  tell 
her  to  reflect  on  the  circumstances  of  her  engagement,  I  at  once  ap- 
peal to  two  of  the  strongest  feelings  in  her  nature — to  her  love  for 
her  father's  memoiy,  and  to  her  strict  regard  for  truth.  You  know 
that  she  never  broke  a  jDromise  in  her  life ;  you  know  that  she  en- 
tered on  this  engagement  at  the  beginning  of  her  father's  fital  ill- 
ness, and  that  he  spoke  hopefully  and  happily  of  her  marriage  to 
Sir  Percival  Glyde  on  his  death-bed." 

I  own  that  I  was  a  little  shocked  at  this  view  of  the  case. 

"  Surely,"  I  said,  "  you  don't  mean  to  infer  that  when  Sir  Percival 
spoke  to  you  yesterday,  he  speculated  on  such  a  result  as  you  have 
just  mentioned  ?" 

Her  frank,  fearless  face  answered  for  her  before  she  spoke. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  remain  an  instant  in  the  company  of  any 
man  whom  I  suspected  of  such  baseness  as  that  ?"  she  asked,  an- 
grily. 

I  liked  to  feel  her  hearty  indignation  flash  out  on  me  in  that  way. 
We  see  so  much  malice  and  so  little  indignation  in  my  profession. 

"  In  that  case,"  I  said,  "  excuse  me  if  I  tell  you,  in  our  legal  phrase, 
that  you  are  traveling  out  of  the  record.  Whatever  the  conse- 
quences may  be.  Sir  Percival  has  a  right  to  expect  that  your  sister 
should  carefully  consider  her  engagement  from  every  reasonable 
point  of  view  before  she  claims  her  release  from  it.  If  that  unlucky 
letter  has  prejudiced  her  against  him,  go  at  once,  and  tell  her  that 
he  has  cleared  himself  in  your  eyes  and  in  mine.     What  oljccUou 


124  THE    WOMAN    IN   AVIIITE. 

can  slic  urije  against  him  after  that?  What  excuse  can  she  possibly 
have  for  chaniring  her  mind  about  a  man  ^vhom  she  had  virtually 
accepted  for  her  husband  more  than  two  years  ago  V 

"  In  the  eyes  of  law  and  reason,  Mr.  Gilmore,  no  excuse,  I  dare  say. 
If  she  still  hesitates,  and  if  I  still  hesitate,  you  must  attribute  our 
strange  conduct,  if  you  like,  to  caprice  in  both  cases,  and  vre  must 
bear  the  imputation  as  well  as  we  can." 

With  those  words,  she  suddenly  rose,  and  left  me.  When  a  sensi- 
ble woman  has  a  serious  question  put  to  her,  and  evades  it  by  a  flij)- 
pant  answer,  it  is  a  sure  sign,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  hundred, 
that  she  has  something  to  conceal.  I  returned  to  the  perusal  of  the 
newspaper,  strongly  suspecting  that  ^Miss  Ilalcombe  and  ]Miss  Fairlie 
bad  a  secret  between  them  which  they  were  keeping  from  Sir  Perci- 
val  and  keeping  from  me.  I  thought  this  hard  on  both  of  us — espe- 
cially on  Sir  Percival. 

My  doubts — or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  my  convictions — were 
confirmed  by  Miss  Halcombe's  language  and  manner,  when  I  saw 
her  again  later  in  the  day.  She  was  suspiciously  brief  and  reserved 
in  telling  me  the  result  of  her  interview  with  her  sister.  ^Sliss  Fair- 
lie,  it  appeared,  had  listened  quietly  while  the  affair  of  the  letter  was 
placed  before  her  in  the  right  point  of  view ;  but  when  3Iiss  Hal- 
combe  next  proceeded  to  say  that  the  object  of  Sir  PercivaVs  visit 
at  Limmeridge  was  to  prevail  on  her  to  let  a  day  be  fixed  for  the 
marriage,  she  checked  all  further  reference  to  the  sulvject  by  beg- 
ging for  time.  If  Sir  Percival  would  consent  to  spare  her  for  the 
present,  she  would  undertake  to  give  him  his  final  answer  before  the 
end  of  the  year.  She  pleaded  for  this  delay  with  such  anxiety  and 
agitation,  that  IMiss  Halcombe  had  promised  to  use  her  influence,  if 
necessary,  to  obtain  it ;  and  there,  at  Mss  Fairlie's  earnest  entreaty, 
all  further  discussion  of  the  marriage  question  had  ended. 

The  purely  temporary  arrangement  thus  proposed  might  have  been 
convenient  enough  to  the  young  lady ;  but  it  proved  somewhat  em- 
barrassing to  the  writer  of  these  lines.  That  morning's  post  had 
brought  a  letter  from  my  partner,  which  obliged  me  to  return  to 
town  the  next  day,  by  the  afternoon  train.  It  was  extremely  prob- 
able that  I  should  find  no  second  opportunity  of  presenting  myself 
at  Limmeridge  House  during  the  remainder  of  the  year.  In  that 
case,  supposing  3Iiss  Fairlie  ultimately  decided  on  holding  to  her 
engagement,  my  necessary  personal  communication  with  her,  before 
I  drew  her  settlement,  would  become  something  like  a  downright 
impossibility;  and  we  should  1)C  obliged  to  commit  to  writing  ques- 
tions which  ought  always  to  be  discussed  on  both  sides  by  word  of 
mouth.  I  said  nothing  about  this  difficulty,  until  Sir  Percival  had 
been  consulted  on  the  subject  of  the  desired  delay.  He  was  too  gal- 
lant a  gentleman  not  to  grant  the  request  immediately.     When  Miss 


THE    WOMAN    IX   WHITE.  125 

nalcombc  informed  me  of  this,  I  told  licr  tliat  I  must  absolutely 
speak  to  lier  sister  before  I  left  Lirameridge ;  and  it  was,  therefore, 
arranged  that  I  should  see  Miss  Fairlie  in  her  own  sitting-room  the 
next  morning.  She  did  not  come  down  to  dinner,  or  join  us  in  the 
evening.  Indisposition  was  the  excuse ;  and  I  thought  Sir  Percival 
looked,  as  well  he  might,  a  little  annoyed  when  he  heard  of  it. 

The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  I  went  up  to 
Miss  Fairlie's  sitting-room.  The  poor  girl  looked  so  pale  and  sad, 
and  came  forward  to  welcome  me  so  readily  and  j)rettily,  that  the 
resolution  to  lecture  her  on  her  caprice  and  indecision,  which  I  had 
l^een  forming  all  the  way  up  stairs,  failed  me  on  the  spot.  I  led  her 
back  to  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen,  and  placed  myself  op- 
posite to  her.  Her  cross-grained  pet  greyhound  was  in  the  room, 
and  I  fully  expected  a  barking  and  snapping  reception.  Strange  to 
say,  the  whimsical  little  brute  falsified  my  expectations  by  jumping 
into  my  lap,  and  poking  its  sharp  muzzle  familiarly  into  my  hand 
the  moment  I  sat  down. 

"  You  used  often  to  sit  on  my  knee  when  you  were  a  child,  my 
dear,"  I  said,  "  and  now  your  little  dog  seems  determined  to  succeed 
you  in  the  vacant  throne.     Is  that  pretty  drawing  your  doing  ?■' 

I  pointed  to  a  little  album  which  lay  on  the  table  by  her  side,  and 
which  she  had  evidently  been  looking  over  when  I  came  in.  The 
page  that  lay  open  had  a  small  water-color  landscape  very  neatly 
mounted  on  it.  This  was  the  drawing  which  had  suggested  my 
question :  an  idle  question  enough — but  how  could  I  begin  to  talk 
of  busmess  to  her  the  moment  I  opened  my  lips  ? 

"No," she  said, looking  away  from  the  drawing  rather  confusedly; 
"it  is  not  my  doing." 

Her  fingers  had  a  restless  habit,  which  I  remembered  in  her  as  a 
child,  of  always  playing  with  the  first  thing  that  came  to  hand, 
whenever  any  one  was  talking  to  her.  On  this  occasion  they  wan- 
dered to  the  album,  and  toyed  absently  about  the  margin  of  the  lit- 
tle water-color  drawing.  The  expression  of  melancholy  deepened 
on  her  face.  She  did  not  look  at  the  drawing,  or  look  at  me.  Her 
eyes  moved  uneasily  from  object  to  object  in  the  room;  betraying 
plainly  that  she  suspected  Avhat  my  purpose  was  in  coming  to  speak 
to  her.  Seeing  that,  I  thought  it  best  to  get  to  the  purpose  with  as 
little  delay  as  possible. 

"  One  of  the  errands,  my  dear,  which  brings  me  here  is  to  bid  you 
good-bye,"  I  began.  "  I  must  get  back  to  London  to-day ;  and,  before 
I  leave,  I  want  to  have  a  word  with  you  on  the  subject  of  your  own 
afiairs." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  you  are  going,  'Mr.  Gilmore,"  she  said,  looking  at 
me  kindly.     "It  is  like  the  happy  old  times  to  have  you  here." 
■' "  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  come  back,  and  recall  those  pleasant 


126  THE    AVOMAN    IN    AVIIITK. 

memories  once  more,''  I  continued  ;  "  l)ut  as  there  is  some  uncertain- 
ty about  tlic  future,  I  must  take  my  opportunity  when  I  can  get  it, 
and  speak  to  you  now.  I  am  your  old  lawyer  and  your  old  friend; 
and  I  may  remind  you,  I  am  sure,  without  offense,  of  the  possibility 
of  your  marrying  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

She  took  lier  hand  olf  the  little  allnmi  as  suddenly  as  if  it  had 
turned  hot  and  burned  her.  Her  fingers  twined  together  nervously 
in  her  lap  ;  her  eyes  looked  down  again  at  the  floor  ;  and  an  expres- 
sion of  constraint  settled  on  her  face  which  looked  almost  like  an  ex- 
pression of  pain. 

"  Is  it  absolutely  necessary  to  speak  of  my  marriage  engagement  ?" 
she  asked,  in  low  tones. 

'•  It  is  necessary  to  refer  to  it,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  not  to  dwell  on  it. 
Let  us  merely  say  that  you  may  marrj^  or  that  you  may  not  marry. 
In  the  first  case,  I  must  be  prepared,  beforehand,  to  draw  your  settle- 
ment ;  and  I  ought  not  to  do  that  without,  as  a  matter  of  politeness, 
first  consulting  you.  This  may  be  my  only  chance  of  hearing  what 
your  wishes  are.  Let  us,  therefore,  suppose  the  case  of  your  mar- 
rying, and  let  me  inform  you,  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  what  your 
position  is  now,  and  what  you  may  make  it,  if  you  please,  in  the 
future." 

I  explained  to  her  the  object  of  a  marriage-settlement ;  and  then 
told  her  exactly  what  her  prospects  were — in  the  first  place,  on  her 
coming  of  age,  and,  in  the  second  place,  on  the  decease  of  her  uncle 
• — marking  the  distinction  between  the  j^roperty  in  which  she  had  a 
life  interest  only,  and  the  property  which  w^as  left  at  her  own  control. 
She  listened  attentively,  with  the  constrained  expression  still  on  her 
face,  and  her  hands  still  nervously  clasped  together  in  her  lap. 

"  And  now,"  I  said,  in  conclusion,  "  tell  me  if  you  can  think  of  any 
condition  which,  in  the  case  we  have  supposed,  you  would  wish  me 
to  make  for  you — subject,  of  course,  to  your  guardian's  approval,  as 
you  are  not  yet  of  age." 

She  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair — then  looked  in  my  face,  on  a 
sudden,  veiy  earnestly. 

"  If  it  does  happen,"  she  began,  faintly  ;  '"  if  I  am — " 

"  If  you  are  married,"  I  added,  helping  her  out. 

"  Don't  let  him  part  me  from  Marian,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden 
outl)reak  of  energ}^  "  Oh,  Mr.  Gilmorc,  pray  make  it  law  that  Ma- 
rian is  to  live  with  me  I" 

Under  other  circumstances  I  might  perhaps  have  been  amused  at 
this  essentially  feminine  intcr2)retation  of  my  question,  and  of  the 
long  explanation  which  had  preceded  it.  But  her  looks  and  tones, 
when  she  spoke,  were  of  a  kind  to  make  me  more  than  serious — they 
distressed  me.  Her  w^ords,  few  as  they  were,  betrayed  a  desperate 
clinging  to  the  past  which  boded  ill  for  the  future. 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  127 

"  Your  having  Marian  Halcombc  to  live  v.itli  you,  can  easily  be 
settled  by  private  arrangement,"  I  said.  '*  You  hardly  understood 
my  question,  I  think.  It  referred  to  your  own  property — to  the  dis- 
posal of  your  money.  Supposing  you  were  to  make  a  will,  when  you 
come  of  age,  who  vrould  you  like  the  money  to  go  to?'' 

''  Marian  has  l)een  mother  and  sister  both  to  me,''  said  the  good, 
affectionate  girl,  her  pretty  blue  eyes  glistening  while  she  spoke. 
"  May  I  leave  it  to  Marian,  Mr.  Gilmore  ?" 

"  Certainly,  my  love,"  I  answered.  "  But  rememl^er  what  a  large 
sum  it  is.     Would  you  like  it  all  to  go  to  Miss  Halcombc  ?'' 

She  hesitated ;  her  color  came  and  went ;  and  her  hand  stole  back 
again  to  the  little  album. 

"  Not  all  of  it,"  she  said.  '"  There  is  some  one  else,  l^csides  Mari- 
an— " 

She  stopped ;  her  color  heightened ;  and  the  fingers  of  the  hand 
that  rested  upon  the  album  beat  gently  on  the  margin  of  the  draw- 
ing, as  if  her  memory  had  set  them  going  mechanically  with  the  re- 
membrance of  a  favorite  tune. 

"  You  mean  some  other  member  of  the  family  besides  Miss  Hal- 
combe  ?"  I  suggested,  seeing  her  at  a  loss  to  proceed. 

The  heightening  color  spread  to  her  forehead  and  her  neck,  and 
the  nervous  fingers  suddenly  clasped  themselves  fast  round  the  edge 
of  the  book. 

"  There  is  some  one  else,"  she  said,  not  noticing  my  last  words, 
though  she  had  e\ddently  heard  them ;  "  there  is  some  one  else  w^ho 
might  like  a  little  keepsake,  if— if  I  might  leave  it.  There  would  be 
no  harm,  if  I  should  die  first — " 

She  paused  again.  The  color  that  had  spread  over  her  cheeks 
suddenly,  as  suddenly  left  them.  The  hand  on  the  album  resigned 
its  hold,  trembled  a  little,  and  moved  the  book  away  ti-om  her.  She 
looked  at  me  for  an  instant — then  turned  her  head  aside  in  the  chair. 
Her  handkerchief  fell  to  the  floor  as  she  changed  her  position,  and 
she  hurriedly  hid  her  face  from  me  in  her  hands. 

Sad !  To  remember  her,  as  I  did,  the  liveliest,  happiest  child  that 
ever  laughed  the  day  through ;  and  to  see  her  now,  in  the  flower  of 
her  age  and  her  beauty,  so  broken  and  so  brought  down  as  this  I 

In  the  distress  that  she  caused  me,  I  forgot  the  years  that  had 
passed,  and  the  change  they  had  made  in  our  position  toward  one 
another.  I  moved  my  chair  close  to  her,  and  jDicked  ujd  her  hand- 
kerchief from  the  caq3et,  and  drew  her  hands  from  her  face  gently. 
"  Don't  cry,  my  love,"  I  said,  and  dried  the  tears  that  were  gathering 
in  her  eyes,  with  my  own  hand,  as  if  she  had  been  the  little  Laura 
Fairlie  of  ten  long  years  ago. 

It  was  the  best  way  I  could  have  taken  to  compose  her.  She  laid 
her  head  on  my  shoulder,  and  smiled  faintly  through  her  tears. 


128  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITK. 

''I  am  very  sony  for  forgetting  myself,"  she  said,  artlessly.  '^I 
liave  not  been  well — I  have  felt  sadly  weak  and  nervous  lately ;  and 
I  often  cry  without  reason  when  I  am  alone.  I  am  better  now ;  I  can 
answer  you  as  I  ought,  Mr.  Gilmore,  I  can  indeed." 

"No,  no,  my  dear,"  I  replied;  "we  will  consider  the  subject  as 
done  with,  for  the  present.  You  have  said  enough  to  sanction  my 
taking  the  best  possible  care  of  your  interests ;  and  we  can  settle  de- 
tails at  another  opportunity.  Let  us  have  done  with  business,  now, 
and  talk  of  something  else." 

I  led  her  at  once  into  speaking  on  other  topics.  In  ten  minutes' 
time,  she  was  in  better  spirits;  and  I  rose  to  take  my  leave. 

"  Come  here  again,"  she  said,  earnestly.  "  I  will  try  to  be  wor- 
thier of  your  kind  feeling  for  me  and  for  my  interests  if  you  will 
only  come  again." 

Still  clinging  to  the  past — that  past  which  I  represented  to  her, 
in  my  way,  as  Miss  Ilalcombe  did  in  hers  I  It  troubled  me  sorely  to 
see  her  looking  back,  at  the  beginning  of  her  career,  just  as  I  look 
back  at  the  end  of  mine. 

''  If  I  do  come  again,  I  hope  I  shall  find  you  better,"  I  said — "  bet- 
ter and  happier.     God  bless  you,  my  dear !" 

She  only  answered  by  putting  up  her  cheek  to  me  to  be  kissed. 
Even  lawyers  have  hearts ;  and  mine  ached  a  little  as  I  took  leave 
of  her. 

The  whole  interview  between  us  had  hardly  lasted  more  than  half 
an  hour — she  had  not  breathed  a  word,  in  my  presence,  to  explain 
the  mystery  of  her  evident  distress  and  dismay  at  the  prospect  of 
her  marriage — and  yet  she  had  contrived  to  win  me  over  to  her  side 
of  the  question,  I  neither  knew  how  nor  wiiy.  I  had  entered  the 
room,  feeling  that  Sir  Percival  Glyde  had  fair  reason  to  complain  of 
the  manner  in  which  she  was  treating  him.  I  left  it  secretly  hoping 
that  matters  might  end  in  her  taking  him  at  his  word  and  claiming 
lier  release.  A  man  of  my  age  and  experience  ought  to  have  known 
better  than  to  vacillate  in  this  unreasonable  manner.  I  can  make 
no  excuse  for  myself;  I  can  only  tell  the  truth,  and  saj' — so  it  was. 

The  hour  for  my  departure  was  now^  drawing  near.  I  sent  to  Mr. 
Fairlie  to  say  that  I  would  wait  on  him  to  take  leave  if  he  liked, 
but  that  he  must  excuse  my  being  rather  in  a  hurry.  He  sent  a  mes- 
sage back,  written  in  pencil  on  a  slip  of  paper :  ''  Kind  love  and  best 
wishes,  dear  Gilmore.  Hurry  of  any  kind  is  inexpressibly  injurious 
to  me.     Pray  take  care  of  yourself    Good-bye." 

Just  before  I  left,  I  saw  Miss  Halcombe,  for  a  moment,  alone. 

"  Have  you  said  all  you  wanted  to  Laura  ?"'  she  asked. 

''  Yes,"  I  replied.  '*  She  is  very  w  eak  and  nervous — I  am  glad  she 
has  you  to  take  care  of  her." 

Miss  Halcombe's  sharp  eyes  studied  my  face  attentively. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  129 

"  You  are  altering  your  opinion  about  Laura,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
readier  to  make  allowances  for  her  than  you  were  yesterday.'" 

No  sensible  man  ever  engages,  unprepared,  in  a  fencing-match  of 
words  with  a  woman.     I  only  answered  : 

"  Let  me  know  what  happens.  I  will  do  nothing  till  I  hear  from 
you." 

She  still  looked  hard  in  my  face.  "  I  wish  it  was  all  over,  and 
well  over,  Mr.  Gilmore — and  so  do  you."  With  those  words  she  left 
me. 

Sir  Percival  most  politely  insisted  on  seeing  me  to  the  carriage 
door. 

"  If  you  are  ever  in  my  neighborhood,"  he  said,  "  pray  don't  for- 
get that  I  am  sincerely  anxious  to  improve  our  acquaintance.  The 
tried  and  trusted  old  friend  of  this  family  will  be  always  a  welcome 
visitor  in  any  house  of  mine." 

^^  really  irresistible  man — courteous,  considerate,  delightfully  free 
from  pride — a  gentleman,  eveiy  inch  of  him.  As  I  drove  away  to 
the  station,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  cheerfully  do  any  thing  to  promote 
the  interests  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde — any  thing  in  the  world,  except 
drawing  the  marriage-settlement  of  his  wife. 

III. 

A  week  passed,  after  my  return  to  London,  without  the  receipt  of 
any  communication  from  Miss  Halcombe. 

On  the  eighth  day,  a  letter  in  her  handwriting  was  placed  among 
the  other  letters  on  my  table. 

It  announced  that  Sir  Percival  Glyde  had  been  definitely  accepted, 
and  that  the  marriage  was  to  take  place,  as  he  had  originally  desired, 
before  the  end  of  the  year.  In  all  probability  the  ceremony  w^oulcl 
])e  performed  during  the  last  fortnight  in  December.  Miss  Fairlie's 
twenty-first  birthday  was  late  in  March.  She  would,  therefore,  by 
this  arrangement,  become  Sir  Percival's  wife  about  three  months  be- 
fore she  was  of  age. 

I  ought  not  to  have  been  surprised,  I  ought  not  to  have  been  sor- 
ry ;  but  I  was  surprised  and  sorry,  nevertheless.  Some  little  disap- 
pointment, caused  by  the  unsatisfactory  shortness  of  Miss  Halcombe's 
letter,  mingled  itself  with  these  feelings,  and  contributed  its  share 
toward  upsetting  my  serenity  for  the  day.  In  six  lines  my  corre- 
spondent announced  the  jDroposed  marriage;  in  three  more,  she  told 
me  that  Sir  Percival  had  left  Cumberland  to  return  to  his  house  in 
Hampshire ;  and  in  two  concluding  sentences  she  informed  me,  first, 
that  Laura  was  sadly  in  want  of  change  and  cheerful  society ;  sec- 
ondly, that  she  had  resolved  to  try  the  effect  of  some  such  change 
forthwith,  by  taking  her  sister  away  with  her  on  a  visit  to  certain 
old  fiiends  in  Yorkshire.     There  the  letter  ended,  without  a  word 

6* 


130  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

to  explain  what  the  circumstances  were  which  had  decided  Miss 
Fairlie  to  accept  Sir  Percival  Glycle  in  one  short  week  from  the  time 
when  I  had  hist  seen  her. 

At  a  hater  period,  the  cause  of  this  sudden  determination  was  fully 
explained  to  me.  It  is  not  my  business  to  relate  it  imperfectly,  on 
hearsay  evidence.  The  circumstances  came  within  the  i)ersonal  ex- 
perience of  Miss  ITalcombe ;  and,  when  her  narrative  succeeds  mine, 
che  will  describe  them  in  every  particular,  exactly  as  they  happened. 
In  the  mean  time,  the  plain  duty  for  me  to  perform — before  I,  in  my 
turn,  lay  down  my  pen  and  withdraw  from  the  story — is  to  relate  the 
one  remaining  event  connected  with  ^Miss  Fairlie's  proposed  mar- 
riage in  which  I  was  concerned,  namely,  the  drawing  of  the  settle- 
ment. 

It  is  imi^ossible  to  refer  intelligibly  to  this  document,  without  first 
entering  into  certain  particulars  in  relation  to  the  bride's  pecuniary 
affairs.  I  will  try  to  make  my  explanation  briefly  and  plainly,  and 
to  keep  it  free  from  professional  obscurities  and  technicalities.  The 
matter  is  of  the  utmost  imiDortance.  I  warn  all  readers  of  these  lines 
that  Miss  Fairlie's  inheritance  is  a  very  serious  part  of  Miss  Fairlie's 
storj^ ;  and  that  INIr.  Gilmore's  experience,  in  this  particular,  must  be 
their  experience  also,  if  they  wish  to  understand  the  narratives  which 
are  yet  to  come. 

Miss  Fairlie's  expectations,  then,  were  of  a  twofold  kind  ;  compris- 
ing her  possible  inheritance  of  real  f)roperty,  or  land,  when  her  uncle 
died,  and  her  absolute  inheritance  of  personal  property,  or  money, 
when  she  came  of  age. 

Let  us  take  the  land  first. 

In  the  time  of  Miss  Fairlie's  paternal  grandfiither  (whom  we  will 
call  Mr.  Fairlie  the  elder)  the  entailed  succession  to  the  Limmeridge 
estate  stood  thus : 

Mr.  Fairlie,  the  elder,  died  and  left  three  sons,  Philip,  Frederick, 
and  Arthur.  As  eldest  son,  Philip  succeeded  to  the  estate.  If  he 
died  without  leaving  a  son,  the  property  went  to  the  second  brother, 
Frederick.  And  if  Frederick  died  also  without  leaving  a  son,  the 
property  went  to  the  third  brother,  Arthur. 

As  events  turned  out,  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  died  leaving  an  only 
daughter,  the  Laura  of  this  story ;  and  the  estate,  in  consequence, 
went,  in  course  of  law,  to  the  second  brother,  Frederick,  a  single  man. 
The  third  brother,  Arthur,  had  died  many  years  before  the  decease  of 
Philip,  leaving  a  son  and  a  daughter.  The  son,  at  the  age  of  eight- 
een, was  drowned  at  Oxford.  His  death  left  Laura,  the  daughter  of 
Mr.  Philip  Fairlie,  presumptive  heiress  to  the  estate;  with  every 
chance  of  succeeding  to  it,  in  the  ordinaiy  course  of  nature,  on  her 
uncle  Frederick's  death,  if  the  said  Frederick  died  without  leaving 
male  issue. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  131 

Except  in  the  event,  then,  of  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie's  marrj^ing  and 
weaving  an  heir  (the  two  very  last  things  in  the  world  that  he  was 
likely  to  doj,  his  niece,  Laura,  would  have  the  pro2)erty  on  his  death; 
possessing, it  must  be  remembered,  nothing  more  than  a  life-interest 
in  it.  If  she  died  single,  or  died  childless,  the  estate  would  revert 
to  her  cousin  Magdalen,  the  daughter  of  Mr.  Arthur  Fairlie.  If  she 
married,  w^ith  a  projDcr  settlement — or,  in  other  w^ords,  with  the  settle- 
ment I  meant  to  make  for  her — the  income  from  the  estate  (a  good 
three  thousand  a  year)  would,  during  her  lifetime,  be  at  her  own  dis- 
posal. If  she  died  before  her  husband,  he  would  naturally  expect  to 
be  left  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  income,  for  Ms  lifetime.  If  she  had 
a  son,  that  son  would  be  the  heir,  to  the  exclusion  of  her  cousin  Mag- 
dalen. Thus,  Sir  Percival's  prospects  in  marrying  Miss  Fairlie  (so  far 
as  his  wife's  expectations  from  real  property  were  concerned)  prom- 
ised him  these  two  advantages,  on  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie's  death :  first, 
the  use  of  three  thousand  a  year  (by  his  wife's  permission,  while  she 
lived,  and,  in  his  own  right,  on  her  death,  if  he  survived  her) ;  and, 
secondly,  the  inheritance  of  Limmeridge  for  his  son,  if  he  had  one. 

So  much  for  the  landed  property,  and  for  the  disposal  of  the  in- 
come from  it,  on  the  occasion  of  Miss  Fairlie's  marriage.  Thus  far, 
no  difficulty  or  difference  of  opinion  on  the  lady's  settlement  was  at 
all  likely  to  arise  between  Sir  Percival's  lawyer  and  myself. 

The  personal  estate,  or,  in  other  words,  the  money  to  which  Miss 
Fairlie  would  become  entitled  on  reaching  the  age  of  twenty-one 
years,  is  the  next  point  to  consider. 

This  part  of  her  inheritance  was,  in  itself,  a  comfortable  little  for- 
tune. It  was  derived  under  her  father's  will,  and  it  amounted  to  the 
sum  of  twenty  thousand  pounds.  Besides  this,  she  had  a  life  interest 
in  ten  thousand  pounds  more ;  which  latter  amount  was  to  go,  on 
her  decease,  to  her  aunt  Eleanor,  her  father's  only  sister.  It  will 
greatly  assist  in  setting  the  family  affairs  before  the  reader  in  the 
clearest  possible  light,  if  I  stop  here  for  a  moment  to  explain  why  the 
aunt  had  been  kept  waiting  for  her  legacy  until  the  death  of  the 
niece, 

ISIr.  Philip  Fairlie  had  lived  on  excellent  terms  with  his  sister  Elea- 
nor, as  long  as  she  remained  a  single  woman.  But  when  her  mar- 
riage took  i)lace,  somewhat  late  in  life,  and  when  that  maniage  uni- 
ted her  to  an  Italian  gentleman,  named  Fosco — or,  rather  to  an  Itali- 
an nobleman,  seeing  that  he  rejoiced  in  the  title  of  Count — Mr.  Fair- 
lie  disapproved  of  her  conduct  so  strongly  that  he  ceased  to  hold  any 
communication  with  her,  and  even  went  the  length  of  striking  her 
name  out  of  his  will.  The  other  members  of  the  family  all  thought 
this  serious  manifestation  of  resentment  at  his  sister's  marriage  more 
or  less  unreasona])le.  Count  Fosco,  though  not  a  rich  man,  was  not 
a  penniless  adventurer  either.     He  had  a  small,  but  sufficient  income 


132  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

of  his  ovm;  lie  had  lived  many  years  in  England;  and  he  held 
an  excellent  position  in  society.  These  recommendations,  however, 
availed  nothing  with  INIr.  Fairlie.  In  many  of  his  opinions  lie  was  an 
Englishman  of  the  old  school;  and  he  hated  a  foreigner,  simply  and 
solely  because  he  was  a  foreigner.  The  utmost  that  he  could  be  pre- 
vailed on  to  do,  in  after  years,  mainly  at  Miss  Fairlie's  intercession, 
was  to  restore  his  sister's  name  to  its  former  place  in  his  will,  but  to 
keep  her  waiting  for  her  legacy  by  giving  the  income  of  the  money 
to  his  daughter  for  life,  and  the  money  itself,  if  her  aunt  died  before 
her,  to  her  co'isin  Magdalen.  Considering  the  relative  ages  of  the 
two  ladies,  the  aunt's  chance,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  of  re- 
ceiving the  ten  thousiind  pounds,  was  thus  rendered  doubtful  in  the 
extreme ;  and  Madame  Fosco  resented  her  brother's  treatment  of  her 
as  unjustly  as  usual  in  such  cases,  by  refusing  to  see  her  niece,  and 
declining  to  believe  that  Miss  Fairlie's  intercession  had  ever  been 
exerted  to  restore  her  name  to  Mr.  Fairlie's  will. 

Such  was  the  history  of  the  ten  thousand  pounds.  Here,  again, 
no  difficulty  could  arise  with  Sir  Percival's  legal  adviser.  The  in- 
come would  be  at  the  wife's  disposal,  and  the  principal  would  go  t» 
her  aunt,  or  her  cousin,  on  her  death. 

All  preliminary  exj^lanations  being  now  cleared  out  of  the  way,  I 
come,  at  last,  to  the  real  knot  of  the  case — to  the  twenty  thousand 
pounds. 

This  sum  was  absolutely  Miss  Fairlie's  own,  on  her  completing  her 
twenty-fii*st  year ;  and  the  whole  future  disposition  of  it  depended, 
in  the  first  instance,  on  the  conditions  I  could  obtain  for  her  in  her 
marriage-settlement.  The  other  clauses  contained  in  that  document 
were  of  a  formal  kind,  and  need  not  l)e  recited  here.  Eut  the  clause 
relating  to  the  money  is  too  important  to  be  i)assed  over.  A  few 
lines  will  be  sufficient  to  give  the  necessary  abstract  of  it. 

My  stipulation  in  regard  to  the  twenty  thousand  pounds  was  sim- 
ply this:  The  whole  amount  was  to  be  settled  so  as  to  give  the  in- 
come to  the  lady  for  her  life;  aftei'ward  to  Sir  Percival  for  his  life; 
and  the  j^rincipal  to  the  children  of  the  marriage.  In  default  of  is- 
sue, the  principal  was  to  be  disposed  of  as  the  lady  might  by  lier 
will  direct,  for  which  purpose  I  reserved  to  her  the  right  of  making 
a  will.  The  effect  of  these  conditions  may  l)e  thus  summed  up:  If 
Lady  Glyde  tlied  without  leaving  fhildren,  her  half-sister.  Miss  Hal- 
combe,  and  any  other  relatives  or  friends  whom  she  might  be  anx- 
ious to  ben*  fit,  would,  on  her  husband's  death,  divide  among  them 
sucli  shares  of  her  money  as  she  desired  them  to  have.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  died,  leaving  children,  then  their  interest,  naturally 
and  necessarily,  superseded  all  other  interests  whatsoever.  This 
was  the  clause;  and  no  one  who  reads  it  can  fail,  I  think,  to  agree 
with  me  that  it  meted  out  equal  justice  to  all  parties. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  133 

We  shall  see  how  my  proposals  were  met  on  the  hiisl.)an(:Vs  side. 

At  the  time  when  Miss  Halcombe's  letter  reached  me,  I  was  even 
more  busily  occupied  than  usual.  But  I  contrived  to  make  leisure 
for  the  settlement.  I  had  drawn  it,  and  had  sent  it  for  approval  to 
Sir  Percival's  solicitor,  in  less  than  a  week  from  the  time  when  Miss 
Halcombe  had  informed  me  of  the  proposed  marriage. 

After  a  lapse  of  two  days,  the  document  was  returned  to  me,  with 
notes  and  remarks  of  the  baronet's  lawyer.  His  objections,  in  gen- 
eral, proved  to  be  of  the  most  trifling  and  technical  kind,  until  he 
came  to  the  clause  relating  to  the  twenty  thousand  jDOunds.  Against 
this  there  were  double  lines  drawn  in  red  ink,  and  the  following  note 
was  appended  to  them  : 

"  Not  admissible.  The  princijjcil  to  go  to  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  in 
the  event  of  his  surviving  Lady  Glyde,  and  there  being  no  issue." 

That  is  to  say,  not  one  farthing  of  the  twenty  thousand  pounds 
was  to  go  to  Miss  Halcombe,  or  to  any  other  relative  or  friend  of 
Lady  Glyde's.  The  whole  sum,  if  she  left  no  children,  was  to  slip 
into  the  pockets  of  her  husband. 

The  answer  I  wrote  to  this  audacious  proposal  was  as  short  and 
sharp  as  I  could  make  it.  "  My  dear  sir.  Miss  Fairlie's  settlement. 
I  maintain  the  clause  to  which  you  object,  exactly  as  it  stands. 
Yours  truly."  The  rejoinder  came  back  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
'■'■  My  dear  sir.  Miss  Fairlie's  settlement.  I  maintain  the  red  ink  to 
which  you  object,  exactly  as  it  stands.  Yours  truly."  In  the  de- 
testable slang  of  the  day,  we  were  now  both  "  at  a  dead-lock,"  and 
nothing  was  left  for  it  but  to  refer  to  our  clients  on  either  side. 

As  matters  stood,  my  client — Miss  Fairlie  not  having  yet  com- 
pleted her  twenty-first  year — was  her  guardian,  Mr.  Frederick  Fair- 
lie.  I  wrote  by  that  day's  jDOst  and  put  the  case  before  him  exactly 
as  it  stood ;  not  only  urging  every  argument  I  could  think  of  to  in- 
duce him  to  maintain  the  clause  as  I  had  drawn  it,  but  stating  to 
him  plainly  the  mercenary  motive  which  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
opposition  to  my  settlement  of  the  twenty  thousand  pounds.  The 
knowledge  of  Sir  PercivaFs  affairs  which  I  had  necessarily  gained 
when  the  provisions  of  the  deed  on  7ds  side  were  submitted  in  due 
course  to  my  examination,  had  but  too  plainly  informed  me  that  the 
debts  on  his  estate  were  enormous,  and  that  his  income,  though 
nominally  a  large  one,  was,  virtually,  for  a  man  in  his  position,  next 
to  nothing.  The  want  of  ready  money  was  the  practical  necessity 
of  Sir  PercivaVs  existence ;  and  his  lawyer's  note  on  the  clause  in 
the  settlement  was  nothing  but  the  frankly  selfish  expression  of  it. 

Mr.  Fairlie's  answer  reached  me  by  return  of  jDost,  and  proved  to 
be  wandering  and  irrelevant  in  the  extreme.  Turned  into  plain  En- 
glish, it  practically  expressed  itself  to  this  effect :  "  Would  dear  Gil- 
more  be  so  very  obliging  as  not  to  worry  his  friend  and  client  about 


134  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

such  a  trifle  as  a  remote  contingency  ?  "Was  it  likely  that  a  young 
woman  of  twenty-one  would  die  before  a  man  of  forty-five,  and  die 
without  children  ?  On  the  other  hand,  in  such  a  miserable  world  as 
this,  was  it  possible  to  overestimate  the  value  of  peace  and  quiet- 
ness ?  If  those  two  heavenly  blessings  were  offered  in  exchange  for 
such  an  earthly  trifle  as  a  remote  chance  of  twenty  thousand  pounds, 
was  it  not  a  fair  bargain  ?     Surely,  yes.     Then  why  not  make  it  ?" 

I  threw  the  letter  away  in  disgust.  Just  as  it  liad  fluttered  to  the 
ground,  there  Avas  a  knock  at  my  door ;  and  Sir  Percival's  solicitor, 
Mr.  INIerriman,  was  shown  in.  There  are  many  varieties  of  sharjj 
practitioners  in  this  world,  but,  I  think,  the  hardest  of  all  to  deal 
with  arc  the  men  wdio  overreach  you  under  the  disguise  of  inveter- 
ate good-humor.  A  fat,  well-fed,  smiling,  friendly  man  of  business 
is  of  all  parties  to  a  bargain  the  most  hopeless  to  deal  with.  Mr. 
Merriman  v/as  one  of  this  class. 

"  And  how  is  good  Mr.  Gilmore  ?"  he  began,  all  in  a  glow  with  the 
warmth  of  his  own  amiability.  "  Glad  to  see  you,  sir,  in  such  ex- 
cellent health.  I  Avas  passing  your  door;  and  I  thought  I  would 
look  in,  in  case  you  might  have  something  to  say  to  me.  Do — now 
pray  do  let  us  settle  this  little  difference  of  ours  by  word  of  mouth, 
if  we  can  !     Have  you  heard  from  your  client  yet  ?" 

"  Yes.     Have  you  heard  from  yours  ?" 

"My  dear,  good  sir!  I  wish  I  had  heard  from  him  to  any  pur- 
pose— I  wish,  Avith  all  my  heart,  the  responsibility  Avas  off  my  shoul- 
ders; but  he  is  obstinate — or,  let  me  rather  say,  resolute — and  he 
Avon't  take  it  oft".  '  Merriman,  I  leave  details  to  you.  Do  Avhat  you 
think  right  for  my  interests ;  and  consider  me  as  haA-ing  personally 
Avithdrawn  from  the  business  until  it  is  all  over.'  Those  Avere  Sir 
Percival's  Avords  a  fortnight  ago ;  and  all  I  can  get  him  to  do  now  is 
to  rei)eat  them.  I  am  not  a  hard  man,  Mr.  Gilmore,  as  you  know. 
Pei-sonally  and  privately,  I  do  assure  you,  I  should  like  to  sponge 
out  that  note  of  mine  at  this  very  moment.  But  if  Sir  Percival 
Avon't  go  into  the  matter,  if  Sir  Percival  Avill  blindly  leave  all  his  in- 
terests in  my  sole  care,  Avhat  course  can  I  possibly  take  except  the 
course  of  asserting  them  ?  My  hands  are  bound — don't  you  see,  my 
dear  sir? — my  hands  are  bound." 

"  You  maintain  your  note  on  the  clause,  then,  to  the  letter  ?"  I 
said. 

"Yes — deuce  take  it!  I  have  no  other  alternative.''  He  walked 
to  the  fire-place  and  Avarmed  himself,  humming  the  fag-end  of  a 
tune  in  a  rich  convivial  bass  voice.  "  What  does  your  side  say  ?"  he 
went  on ;  "  now  pray  tell  me — Avhat  does  your  side  say  ?" 

I  Avas  ashamed  to  tell  him.  I  attempted  to  gain  time — nay,  I  did 
worse.  My  legal  instincts  got  the  better  of  me  ;  and  I  even  tried  to 
bargain. 


Hi:    WALKED    TO    THE    FIKE-PLACE    AXD    WAK3IED    HIMSELF, 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  137 

"  Twenty  tlionsand  pounds  is  rather  a  large  sum  to  be  given  np  by 
the  Lady's  friends  at  two  days'  notice,"  I  said. 

"Very  true,"  replied  Mr.  Merriman,  looking  down  thoughtfully  at 
his  boots.    "  Properly  put,  sir — most  properly  put !" 

"  A  compromise,  rcvcognizing  the  interests  of  the  lady's  family  as 
well  as  the  interests  of  the  husband,  might  not,  perliaps,  have  fright- 
ened my  client  quite  so  much."  I  went  on.  "Come!  cornel  this 
contingency  resolves  itself  into  a  matter  of  bargaining  after  all. 
What  is  the  least  you  will  take  ?" 

"The  least  we  will  take," said  Mr.  Merriman,  "  is  nineteen  thou- 
sand nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  pounds  nineteen  shillings  and 
eleven-jDence  three  farthings.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  Excuse  me,  ]VIr.  Gil- 
more.     I  must  have  my  little  joke." 

"Little  enough!"  I  remarked.  "The  joke  is  just  worth  the  odd 
farthing  it  was  made  for." 

Mr.  Merriman  was  delighted.  He  laughed  over  my  retort  till  the 
room  rang  again.  I  was  not  half  so  good-humored,  on  my  side;  I 
came  back  to  business,  and  closed  the  interview. 

"  This  is  Friday,"  I  said.  "  Give  us  till  Tuesday  next  for  our  final 
answer." 

"  By  all  means,"  replied  Mr.  Merriman.  "  Longer,  my  dear  sir,  if 
you  like."  He  took  up  his  hat  to  go  ;  and  then  addressed  me  again. 
"  By-the-way,"  he  said,  "  your  clients  in  Cumberland  have  not  heard 
any  thing  more  of  the  woman  who  wrote  the  anonymous  letter,  have 
they  ?" 

"Nothing  more,"  I  answered.    "  Have  you  found  no  trace  of  her?'' 

"  Not  yet,"  said  my  legal  friend.  "  But  we  don't  despair.  Sir  Per- 
cival  has  his  suspicions  that  Somebody  is  keeping  her  in  hiding ; 
and  we  are  having  that  Somebody  watched." 

"You  mean  the  old  woman  who  was  with  her  in  Cumberland,"  I 
said. 

"  Quite  another  party,  sir,"  answered  Mr.  Merriman.  "  We  don't 
happen  to  have  laid  hands  on  the  old  woman  yet.  Our  Somebody  is 
a  man.  We  have  got  him  close  under  our  eye  here  in  London;  and 
we  strongly  suspect  he  had  something  to  do  with  helping  her  in  the 
first  instance  to  escape  from  the  Asylum.  Sir  Percival  wanted  to 
question  him  at  once ;  but  I  said, '  No.  Questioning  him  will  only 
put  him  on  his  guard:  watch  him,  and  Avait.'  We  shall  sec  what 
happens.  A  dangerous  woman  to  be  at  large,  Mr.  Gilmore  ;  nobody 
knows  what  she  may  do  next.  I  wish  you  good-morning,  sir.  On 
Tuesday  next  I  shall  hope  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing  from  you." 
He  smiled  amiably  and  went  out. 

My  mind  had  been  rather  absent  during  the  latter  part  of  the  con- 
versation with  my  legal  friend.  I  was  so  anxious  about  the  matter 
of  the  settlement,  that  I  had  little  attention  to  give  to  any  other  sub- 


138  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

jpct;  and,  tlie  moment  I  was  left  alone  again,  I  began  to  think  over 
what  my  next  proceeding  ought  to  be. 

In  the  case  of  any  other  client,  I  should  have  acted  on  my  instruc- 
tions, however  personally  distasteful  to  me,  and  have  given  up  the 
point  about  the  twenty  thousand  pounds  on  the  spot.  But  I  could 
not  act  with  this  l)usiness-likc  indiiference  toward  Miss  Fairlic.  I 
\iad  an  lionest  feeling  of  affection  and  admiration  for  her;  I  remem- 
bered gratefully  that  lier  father  had  been  the  kindest  patron  and 
friend  to  me  that  ever  man  had  ;  I  had  felt  toward  her,  while  I  was 
drawing  the  settlement,  as  I  might  have  felt,  if  I  had  not  been  an  old 
bachelor,  toward  a  daughter  of  my  own  ;  and  I  was  determined  to 
spare  no  personal  sacrifice  in.  her  service  and  Avhere  her  interests 
were  concerned.  Writing  a  second  time  to  Mr.  Fairlie  was  not  to  be 
thought  of;  it  would  only  be  giving  him  a  second  opportunity  of 
slipping  through  my  fingers.  Seeing  him  and  personally  remonstra- 
ting with  him,  might  possibly  be  of  more  use.  The  next  day  was 
Saturday.  I  determined  to  take  a  return  ticket,  and  jolt  my  old 
bones  down  to  Cumberland,  on  the  chance  of  persuading  him  to 
fidopt  the  just,  the  independent,  and  the  honorable  course.  It  was 
a  poor  chance  enough, no  doubt;  but,  when  I  had  tried  it, my  con- 
science would  be  at  ease.  I  should  then  have  done  all  that  a  man 
in  my  position  could  do  to  serve  the  interests  of  my  old  friend's  only 
child. 

The  weather  on  Saturday  was  beautiful,  a  west  wind  and  a  bright 
sun.  Having  felt  latterly  a  return  of  that  fullness  and  oppression  of 
the  head,  against  which  my  doctor  warned  me  so  seriously  more  than 
two  years  since,  I  resolved  to  take  the  opportunity  of  getting  a  little 
extra  exercise,  by  sending  my  bag  on  before  me,  and  walking  to  the 
terminus  in  Euston  Square.  As  I  came  out  into  Holborn,a  gentle- 
man, walking  by  rapidly,  stopped  and  sjDoke  to  me.  It  was  Mr. 
Walter  Hartright. 

If  he  had.  not  been  the  first  to  greet  me,  I  should  certainly  have 
passed  him.  He  was  so  changed  that  I  liardly  knew  him  again. 
His  fixce  looked  pale  and  haggard — his  manner  was  hurried  and  un- 
certain— and  his  dress,  which  I  remembered  as  neat  and  gentleman- 
like wlien  I  saw  him  at  Limmeridgc,  was  so  slovenly  now,  that  I 
should  really  have  been  ashamed  of  the  appearance  of  it  on  one  of 
my  own  clerks. 

"  Have  you  been  long  back  from  Cumberland  ?*'  lie  asked.  "  I 
heard  from  Miss  Halcombe  lately.  I  am  aware  that  Sir  Percival 
Glyde's  explanation  has  been  considered  satisfactory.  Will  the  mar- 
riage take  place  soon?     Do  you  happen  to  know,  Mr.  Gilmore ?" 

He  spoke  so  fast,  and  crowded  his  questions  together  so  strangely 
and  confusedly,  that  I  could  hardly  follow  him.  However  accident- 
ally intimate  he  might  have  been  with  the  family  at  Limmeridge,  I 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITE.  139 

could  not  see  that  iie  had  any  right  to  expect  information  01  tlieir 
private  affairs ;  and  I  determined  to  drop  him,  as  easily  as  might  be, 
on  the  subject  of  Miss  Fairlie's  marriage. 

"  Time  will  show.  Mr.  Plartright,""  I  said — '•  time  will  show.  I  dare 
say  if  we  look  out  for  the  marriage  in  the  papers  we  shall  not  be  far 
wrong.  Excuse  my  noticing  it — but  I  am  sorrj--  to  see  you  not  look- 
ing so  well  as  you  were  when  we  last  met."' 

A  momentary  nervous  contraction  quivered  about  his  lips  and  eyes, 
and  made  me  half  reproach  myself  for  having  answered  him  in  such 
a  significantly  guarded  manner. 

"  I  had  no  right  to  ask  about  her  marriage,''  he  said,  bitterly.  ''  I 
must  wait  to  see  it  in  the  newspapers  like  other  people.  Yes,"  he 
went  on,  before  I  could  make  any  apologies,  '*  I  have  not  been  well 
lately.  I  am  going  to  another  country,  to  try  a  change  of  scene  and 
occupation.  Miss  Halcombe  has  kindly  assisted  me  with  her  influ- 
ence, and  my  testimonials  have  been  found  satisfactory.  It  is  a  long 
distance  off— but  I  don't  care  where  I  go,  what  the  climate  is,  or  how 
long  I  am  away.*'  He  looked  about  him,  while  he  said  this,  at  the 
throng  of  strangers  passing  us  by  on  either  side,  in  a  strange,  sus- 
picious manner,  as  if  he  thought  that  some  of  them  might  be  watch- 
ing us. 

"I  wish  you  well  through  it,  and  safe  back  again,"  I  said;  and 
then  added,  so  as  not  to  keep  him  altogether  at  arms-length  on  the 
subject  of  the  Fairlies,  "I  am  going  down  to  Limmeridge  to-day  on 
business.  Miss  Halcombe  and  Miss  Fairlie  are  away  just  now,  on  a 
visit  to  some  friends  in  Yorkshire.'' 

His  eyes  brightened,  and  he  seemed  about  to  say  something  in  an- 
swer ;  but  the  same  momentary  nervous  s^Dasm  crossed  his  face  again. 
He  took  my  hand,  pressed  it  hard,  and  disappeared  among  the 
crowd,  without  saying  another  word.  Though  he  was  little  more 
than  a  stranger  to  me,  I  Avaited  for  a  moment,  looking  after  him  al- 
most with  a  feeling  of  regret.  I  had  gained,  in  my  jDrofession.  suiii- 
cient  experience  of  young  men  to  know  what  the  outward  signs  and 
tokens  were  of  their  beginning  to  go  wrong ;  and,  when  I  resumed 
my  walk  to  the  railway,  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  felt  more  than  doubtful 
about  Mr.  Hartright's  future. 

IV. 

Leaving  by  an  early  train,  I  got  to  Limmeridge  in  time  for  dinner. 
The  house  was  oppressively  emjDty  and  dull.  I  had  expected  that 
good  ^Irs.  Yesey  would  have  been  company  for  me  in  the  absence  of 
the  young  ladies ;  but  she  was  confined  to  her  room  by  a  cold.  The 
servants  were  so  suqDrised  at  seeing  me  that  they  hurried  and  bus- 
tled absurdly,  and  made  all  sorts  of  annoying  mistakes.  Even  the 
butler,  who  was  old  enough  to  have  known  better,  brought  me  a  bot- 


140  THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE. 

tie  of  port  that  was  chilled.  The  reports  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  health  were 
just  as  usual ;  and  when  I  sent  up  a  message  to  announce  my  arrival, 
I  was  told  that  he  would  be  delighted  to  see  me  the  next  morning, 
but  that  the  sudden  news  of  my  appearance  had  prostrated  him  with 
palpitations  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  The  wind  howled  dismally 
all  night,  and  strange  cracking  and  groaning  noises  sounded  here, 
there,  and  everywhere  in  the  empty  house.  I  slept  as  wretchedly  as 
possible ;  and  got  up,  in  a  mighty  bad  humor,  to  breakfast  by  myself 
the  next  morning. 

At  ten  o'clock  I  was  conducted  to  Mr.  Fairlie's  apartments.  He 
was  in  his  usual  room,  his  usual  chair,  and  his  usual  aggravating 
state  of  mind  and  body.  When  I  went  in,  his  valet  was  standing 
before  him,  holding  up  for  inspection  a  heavy  volume  of  etchings,  as 
long  and  as  broad  as  my  office  writing-desk.  The  miserable  for- 
eigner grinned  in  the  most  abject  manner,  and  looked  ready  to  drop 
with  fatigue,  while  his  master  composedly  turned  over  the  etchings, 
and  brought  their  hidden  beauties  to  light  with  the  help  of  a  mag- 
nifying-glass. 

"  You  very  best  of  good  old  friends,"  said  Mr.  Fairlie,  leaning 
back  lazily  before  he  could  look  at  me,  "  are  you  quite  well  ?  How 
nice  of  you  to  come  here  and  see  me  in  my  solitude.  Dear  Gil' 
more !" 

I  had  expected  that  the  valet  would  be  dismissed  when  I  ap- 
2)eared  ;  but  nothing  of  the  sort  happened.  There  he  stood,  in  front 
of  his  master's  chair,  trembling  under  the  weight  of  the  etchings; 
and  there  Mr.  Fairlie  sat,  serenely  twirling  the  magnifying-glass  be- 
tween his  white  lingers  and  thumbs. 

"  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  on  a  very  important  matter,"  I  said ; 
*'  and  you  will  therefore  excuse  me,  if  I  suggest  that  we  had  better 
be  alone." 

The  unfortunate  valet  looked  at  me  gratefully.  Mr.  Fairlie  faint- 
ly  repeated  my  last  three  words,  "  better  be  alone,"  with  every  ap- 
pearance of  the  utmost  possible  astonishment. 

I  was  in  no  humor  for  trifling;  and  I  resolved  to  make  him  under- 
stand what  I  meant. 

"  Oblige  me  by  giving  that  man  permission  to  withdraw,"  I  said, 
pointing  to  the  valet. 

Mr.  Fairlie  arched  his  eyebrows,  and  pursed  ujd  his  lips,  in  sar- 
castic surprise. 

"  Man  ?"  he  repeated.  "  You  provoking  old  Gilmore,  what  can 
you  possibly  mean  by  calling  him  a  man  ?  He's  nothing  of  the  sort. 
He  might  have  been  a  man  half  an  hour  ago,  before  I  wanted  my 
etchings;  and  he  may  be  a  man  half  an  hour  hence,  when  I  don't 
want  them  any  longer.  At  i)resent  he  is  simply  a  port-folio  stand. 
Why  object,  Gilmore,  to  a  port-folio  stand  ?" 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  141 

'•I  do  o])ject.  For  the  third  time,  Mr.  Fairlie,  I  beg  that  we  may 
be  alone.'' 

My  tone  and  manner  left  him  no  alternative  but  to  comx)ly  with 
my  request.  He  looked  at  the  servant,  and  pointed  peevishly  to  a 
chair  at  his  side. 

"  Put  down  the  etchings  and  go  away,"  he  said.  "  Don't  upset  me 
by  losing  my  place.  Have  you,  or  have  you  not,  lost  my  place? 
Are  you  sure  you  have  not  ?  And  have  you  put  my  hand-bell  quite 
within  my  reach  ?     Yes  ?     Then,  why  the  devil  don't  you  go  ?'' 

The  valet  went  out.  Mr.  Fairlie  twisted  himself  round  in  his 
chair,  polished  the  magnify ing-gl ass  with  his  delicate  cambric  hand- 
kerchief, and  indulged  himself  with  a  sidelong  inspection  of  the 
open  volume  of  etchings.  It  was  not  easy  to  keep  my  temper  under 
these  circumstances;  but  I  did  keep  it. 

'*  I  have  come  here  at  great  personal  inconvenience,"  I  said,  "  to 
serve  the  interests  of  your  niece  and  your  family;  and  I  think  I  have 
established  some  slight  claim  to  be  favored  with  your  attention  in 
return." 

"Don't  bully  me  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Fairlie,  fiilling  back  helplessly 
in  the  chair,  and  closing  his  eyes.  '"  Please  don't  bully  me.  I'm  not 
strong  enough." 

I  was  determined  not  to  let  him  provoke  me,  for  Laura  Fairlie's 
sake. 

"  My  object,"  I  went  on, "  is  to  entreat  you  to  reconsider  your  let- 
ter, and  not  to  force  me  to  abandon  the  just  rights  of  your  niece,  and 
of  all  who  belong  to  her.  Let  me  state  the  case  to  you  once  more, 
and  for  the  last  time." 

Mr.  Fairlie  shook  his  head  and  sighed  piteously. 

"  This  is  heartless  of  you,  Gilmore — very  heartless,"  he  said.  "  Nev- 
er mind ;  go  on." 

I  put  all  the  points  to  him  carefully ;  I  set  the  matter  before  him 
in  every  conceivable  light.  He  lay  back  in  the  chair  the  whole 
time  I  was  speaking,  with  his  eyes  closed.  When  I  had  done,  he 
opened  them  indolently,  took  his  silver  smelling-bottle  from  the  ta- 
ble, and  sniffed  at  it  with  an  air  of  gentle  relish. 

"  Good  Gilmore  !"  he  said,  between  the  sniffs,  "  how  very  nice  this 
is  of  you  I     How  you  reconcile  one  to  human  nature  I" 

"  Give  me  a  plain  answer  to  a  plain  question,  Mr.  Fairlie.  I  tell 
you  again.  Sir  Percival  Glyde  has  no  shadow  of  a  claim  to  exj^ect 
more  than  the  income  of  the  money.  The  money  itself,  if  your  niece 
has  no  children,  ought  to  be  under  her  control,  and  to  retura  to  her 
family.  If  you  stand  firm.  Sir  Percival  must  give  way — he  must  give 
way,  I  tell  you,  or  he  exiDoses  himself  to  the  base  imputation  of  mai- 
tjing  jVIiss  Fairlie  entirely  from  mercenary  motives." 

Mr.  Fairlie  shook  the  silver  smelling-bottle  at  me  playfully. 


/42  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIITl  K. 

"You  (Ic'iir  old  Gilniorc;  liow  you  do  hate  rank  and  family,  don't 
you  ?  How  you  detest  Glyde,  because  he  liappens  to  l)e  a  baronet. 
What  a  Radical  you  are — oh,  dear  me,  what  a  Radical  you  are!" 

A  Radical ! ! !  I  could  put  up  with  a  good  deal  of  provocation, 
but,  after  holding  the  soundest  Conservative  principles  all  my  life,  I 
could  not  put  up  with  being  called  a  Radical.  My  blood  boiled  at 
it — I  started  out  of  my  chair — I  was  speechless  with  indignation. 

"  Don't  shake  the  room  !"  cried  Mr.  Fairlie — "  for  Heaven's  sake, 
don't  shake  the  room  !  Worthiest  of  all  possible  Gilmores,  I  meant 
no  offense.  My  own  views  are  so  extremely  liberal  that  I  think  I  am 
a  Radical  myself.  Yes.  We  are  a  pair  of  Radicals.  Please  don't 
be  angry.  I  can't  quarrel  —  I  haven't  stamina  enough.  Shall  we 
drop  the  subject?  Yes.  Come  and  look  at  these  sweet  etchings. 
Do  let  me  teach  you  to  understand  the  heavenly  pearliness  of  these 
lines.     Do,  now,  there's  a  good  Gilmore  I'' 

While  he  was  maundering  on  in  this  way  I  was,  fortunately  for  my 
own  self-respect,  returning  to  my  senses.  When  I  sjioke  again  I  was 
composed  enough  to  treat  his  impertinence  with  the  silent  contempt 
that  it  deserved. 

"  You  are  entirely  wrong,  sir,''  I  said,  "  in  supposing  that  I  speak 
from  any  prejudice  against  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  I  may  regret  that  he 
has  so  unreservedly  resigned  himself  in  this  matter  to  his  lawyer's 
direction  as  to  make  any  appeal  to  himself  impossible ;  but  I  am  not 
prejudiced  against  him.  What  I  have  said  would  equally  apply  to 
any  other  man  in  his  situation,  high  or  low.  The  principle  I  main- 
tain is  a  recognized  principle.  If  you  were  to  apply  at  the  nearest 
town  here,  to  the  first  resijectable  solicitor  you  could  find,  he  would 
tell  you,  as  a  stranger,  what  I  tell  you,  as  a  friend.  He  would  in- 
form you  that  it  is  against  all  rule  to  abandon  the  lady's  money 
entirely  to  the  man  she  marries.  He  would  decline,  on  grounds 
of  common  legal  caution,  to  give  the  husband,  under  any  circum- 
stances whatever,  an  interest  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  his  wife's 
death." 

"Would  he  realh^  Gilmore?"  said  Mr.  Fairlie.  "If  he  said  any 
thing  half  so  horrid,  I  do  assure  you  I  should  tinkle  my  bell  for  Louis, 
and  liave  him  sent  out  of  the  house  immediately." 

"  You  shall  not  irritate  me,  Mr.  Fairlie — for  your  niece's  sake  and 
for  her  father's  sake,  you  shall  not  irritate  me.  You  sluill  take  th« 
whole  responsibility  of  this  discreditable  settlement  on  your  own 
shoulders  before  I  leave  the  room." 

"Don't! — now  please  don't!"  said  Mr.  Fairlie.  "Think  how 
precious  your  time  is,  Gilmore ;  raid  don't  throw  it  away.  I  would 
dispute  with  you  if  I  could,  l)ut  I  can't — I  haven't  stamina  enough. 
You  want  to  u])set  me,  to  upset  yourself,  to  upset  Glyde,  and  to  upset 
Laura  ;  and  -oh,  dear  me  !  — all  for  the  sake  of  the  verv  last  thing  ia 


THE    AVOMAX    IN    WHITE.  143 

the  world  that  is  likely  to  happen.  No,  dear  friend — in  the  interests 
and  quietness,  positively  No  !"' 

''  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  hold  by  the  determination 
expressed  in  your  letter  ?" 

'•  Yes,  please.  So  glad  \\g  understand  each  other  at  last.  Sit 
down  again — do  1" 

I  walked  at  once  to  the  door ;  and  Mr.  Fairlie  resignedly  "  tinkled'' 
his  hand-bell.  Before  I  left  the  room  I  turned  round  and  addressed 
him  for  the  last  time. 

"  Whatever  happens  in  the  future,  sir,"  I  saici,  "  remember  that  my 
plain  duty  of  warning  you  has  been  performed.  As  the  faithful  friend 
and  servant  of  your  family,  I  tell  you,  at  parting,  that  no  daughter  of 
mine  should  be  married  to  any  man  alive  under  such  a  settlement  as 
you  are  forcing  me  to  make  for  Miss  Fairlie." 

The  door  opened  behind  me,  and  the  valet  stood  waiting  on  the 
threshold. 

"  Louis,"  said  ]\Ir.  Fairlie,  "  show  Mr.  Gilmore  out,  and  then  como 
back  and  hold  up  my  etchings  for  me  again.  Make  them  give  you 
a  good  lunch  down  stairs.  Do,  Gilmore,  make  my  idle  beasts  of 
servants  give  you  a  good  lunch  !" 

I  was  too  much  disgusted  to  reply ;  I  turned  on  my  heel,  and  left 
him  in  silence.  There  was  an  up  train  at  two  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon ;  and  by  that  train  I  returned  to  London. 

On  the  Tuesday  I  sent  in  the  altered  settlement,  which  practically 
disinherited  the  very  persons  whom  Miss  Fairlie's  own  lips  had  in- 
formed me  she  was  most  anxious  to  benefit.  I  had  no  choice.  An- 
other lawyer  would  have  drawn  up  the  deed  if  I  had  refused  to 
undertake  it. 

My  task  is  done.  My  personal  share  in  the  events  of  the  family 
stoiy  extends  no  further  than  the  point  which  I  have  just  reached. 
Other  pens  than  mine  will  describe  the  strange  circumstances  which 
are  now  shortly  to  follow.  Seriously  and  sorrowfully,  I  close  this 
brief  record.  Seriously  and  sorrowfully,  I  repeat  here  the  parting 
words  that  I  spoke  at  Limmeridge  House  : — No  daughter  of  mine 
should  have  been  married  to  any  man  alive  under  such  a  settlement 
S.3  I  was  compelled  to  make  for  Laura  Fairlie. 


144  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 


The  Story  continued  by  Marion  IIalcombe,  in  Extracts 
from  her  Diary. 


Limmeridg*  House,  Nov.  8th. 
*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  + 

This  morning  Mr.  Gilmore  left  us. 

His  interview  with  Laura  had  evidently  grieved  and  surprised 
him  more  than  he  liked  to  confess.  I  felt  afraid,  from  liis  look  and 
manner  when  we  parted,  that  she  might  have  inadvertenth-  betrayed 
to  him  the  real  secret  of  her  depression  and  my  anxiet}'.  This 
doubt  grew  on  me  so,  after  he  had  gone,  that  I  declined  riding  out 
with  Sir  Percival,  and  went  up  to  Laura's  room  instead. 

I  have  been  sadly  distrustful  of  myself,  in  this  difficult  and  lament- 
able matter,  ever  since  I  found  out  my  own  ignorance  of  the  strength 
of  Laura's  unhappy  attachment.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  the 
delicacy  and  forbearance  and  sense  of  honor  which  drew  me  to  poor 
Hartright,  and  made  me  so  sincerely  admire  and  respect  him,  were 
just  the  qualities  to  appeal  most  irresistibly  to  Laura's  natural  sen- 
sitiveness and  natural  generosity  of  nature.  And  yet,  until  she  ojDcn- 
ed  her  heart  to  me  of  her  own  accord,  I  had  no  suspicion  that  this 
new  feeling  had  taken  root  so  deeply.  I  once  thought  time  and  care 
might  remove  it.  I  now  fear  that  it  will  remain  with  her  and  alter 
her  for  life.  The  disco veiy  that  I  have  committed  such  an  error  in 
judgment  as  this,  makes  me  hesitate  about  every  thing  else.  I  hesi- 
tate about  Sir  Percival,  in  the  lace  of  the  plainest  proofs.  I  hesitate 
even  in  speaking  to  Laura.  On  this  very  morning,  I  doubted,  with 
my  hand  on  the  door,  whether  I  should  ask  her  the  questions  I  had 
come  to  put,  or  not. 

When  I  went  into  her  room,  I  found  her  walking  up  and  down  in 
great  impatience.  She  looked  flushed  and  excited ;  and  she  came 
forward  at  once,  and  spoke  to  me  before  I  could  open  my  lips. 

"  r  wanted  you,"  she  said.  "  Come  and  sit  down  on  the  sofa  with 
me.     Marian  I  I  can  bear  this  no  longer — I  must  and  will  end  it." 

There  was  too  much  color  in  her  cheeks,  too  much  energy  in  her 
manner,  too  much  firmness  in  her  voice.  The  little  book  of  Hart- 
right's  drawings — the  fatal  book  that  she  will  dream  over  whenever 
she  is  alone — was  in  one  of  her  hands.  I  began  by  gently  and  firm- 
ly taking  it  from  her,  and  putting  it  out  of  sight  on  a  side-table. 

'•  Tell  me  quietly,  my  darling,  what  you  wish  to  do,"  I  said.  "  Has 
Mr.  Gilmore  been  advising  you  V 

t  The  passaj^es  omitted,  here  and  elsewhere,  in  Miss  Halcombe's  Diary,  are  only 
those  which  bear  no  reference  to  Miss  Fairlie  or  to  any  of  the  persons  with  whom 
she  is  associated  in  these  i)ajjes. 


THE    WOMAN   IN   WUITE.  145 

She  shook  her  head.  "  No,  not  in  what  I  am  thmking  of  now. 
He  was  very  kind  and  good  to  me,  Marian,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  say 
I  distressed  him  by  ciying.  I  am  miserably  helpless ;  I  can't  control 
myself.  For  my  own  sake  and  for  all  om:  sakes,  I  must  have  corn-age 
enough  to  end  it." 

'*  Do  you  mean  courage  enough  to  claim  your  release  ?"  I  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said,  simply.     "  Courage,  dear,  to  tell  the  truth." 

She  put  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  rested  her  head  quietly  on 
my  bosom.  On  the  opjDosite  wall  hung  the  miniature  portrait  of 
her  father.  I  bent  over  her,  and  saw  that  she  was  looking  at  it 
while  her  head  lay  on  my  breast. 

"  I  can  never  claim  my  release  from  my  engagement,"  she  went  on. 
"  Whatever  way  it  ends,  it  must  end  wretchedly  for  me.  All  I  can 
do,  Marian,  is  not  to  add  the  remembrance  that  I  have  broken  my 
promise  and  forgotten  my  fathers  dying  words,  to  make  that  wretch- 
edness worse." 

"  What  is  it  you  propose,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

"  To  tell  Sir  Percival  Glyde  the  truth,  with  my  own  lips,"  she  an- 
swered, "  and  to  let  him  release  me,  if  he  will,  not  because  I  ask  him, 
but  because  he  knows  all." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Laura,  by  *  all  V  Sir  Percival  will  know 
enough  (he  has  told  me  so  himself)  if  he  knows  that  the  engage- 
ment is  opposed  to  your  own  wishes." 

"  Can  I  tell  him  that,  when  the  engagement  was  made  for  me  by 
my  father,  with  my  own  consent  ?  I  should  have  kept  my  promise : 
not  happily,  I  am  afraid,  but  still  contentedly  " —  she  stopped,  turn- 
ed her  face  to  me,  and  laid  her  cheek  close  against  mine — "  I  should 
have  kept  my  engagement,  Marian,  if  another  love  had  not  grown  up 
in  my  heart,  which  was  not  there  when  I  first  promised  to  be  Sir  Per- 
civaVs  wife." 

"  Laura !  you  will  never  lower  yourself  by  making  a  confession  to 
him  ?" 

"  I  shall  lower  myself,  indeed,  if  I  gain  my  release  by  hiding  from 
him  what  he  has  a  right  to  know." 

"  He  has  not  the  shadow  of  a  right  to  know  it !" 

"  Wrong,  Marian,  wrong !  I  ought  to  deceive  no  one — least  of  all 
the  man  to  whom  my  father  gave  me,  and  to  whom  I  gave  myself." 
She  put  her  lips  to  mine,  and  kissed  me.  "  My  own  love,"  she  said, 
softly,  "  you  are  so  much  too  fond  of  me  and  so  much  too  proud  of 
me,  that  you  forget,  in  my  case,  what  you  would  remember  in  your 
own.  Better  that  Sir  Percival  should  doubt  my  motives  and  mis- 
judge my  conduct,  if  he  will,  than  that  I  should  be  first  false  to  him 
in  thought,  and  then  mean  enough  to  serve  my  own  interests  by  hid- 
ing the  falsehood." 

I  held  her  away  from  me  in  astonishment.     For  the  first  time  in 

7 


146  THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

our  lives,  we  had  changed  places ;  the  resolution  was  all  on  her  sides 
the  hesitation  all  on  mine.  I  looked  into  the  pale,  quiet,  resigned 
young  fjicc;  I  saw  the  pure,  innocent  heart  in  the  loving  eyes  that 
looked  back  at  me — and  the  poor  worldly  cautions  and  objections 
that  rose  to  my  lips,  dwindled  and  died  away  in  their  own  empti- 
ness. I  hung  my  head  in  silence.  In  her  place,  the  despicably 
small  pride  which  makes  so  many  women  deceitful,  would  have 
been  my  pride,  and  would  have  made  me  deceitful  too. 

'•  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Marian,"  she  said,  mistaking  my  silence. 

I  only  answered  by  drawing  her  close  to  me  again.  I  was  afraid 
of  crj^ing  if  I  spoke.  My  tears  do  not  flow  so  easily  as  they  ought 
— they  come  almost  like  men's  tears,  with  sobs  that  seem  to  tear  me 
in  pieces,  and  that  frighten  every  one  about  me. 

"  I  have  thought  of  this,  love,  for  many  days,"  she  went  on,  t^yin- 
ing  and  twisting  my  hair  with  that  childish  restlessness  in  her  fin- 
gers, which  poor  Mrs.  Vesey  still  tries  so  patiently  and  so  vainly  to 
cure  her  of— "I  have  thought  of  it  very  seriously,  and  I  can  be  sure 
of  my  courage,  when  my  own  conscience  tells  me  I  am  right.  Let 
me  speak  to  him  to-morrow — in  your  presence,  Marian.  I  will  say 
nothing  that  is  wrong,  nothing  that  you  or  I  need  be  ashamed  of — 
but  oh,  it  will  ease  my  heart  so  to  end  this  miserable  concealment ! 
Only  let  me  know  and  feel  that  I  have  no  deception  to  answer  for 
on  my  side ;  and  then,  when  he  has  heard  what  I  have  to  say,  let 
him  act  toward  me  as  he  will." 

She  sighed,  and  put  her  head  back  in  its  old  position  on  my  bo- 
som. Sad  misgivings  about  what  the  end  would  be,  weighed  upon 
my  mind ;  but,  still  distrusting  myself,  I  told  her  that  I  would  do  as 
she  wished.  She  thanked  me,  and  we  passed  gradually  into  talking 
of  other  things. 

At  dinner  she  joined  us  again,  and  was  more  easy  and  more  her^ 
self  with  Sir  Percival,  than  I  have  seen  her  yet.  In  the  even- 
ing she  went  to  the  piano,  choosing  new  music  of  the  dexterous, 
tuneless,  florid  kind.  The  lovely  old  melodies  of  Mozart,  which 
poor  Hartright  was  so  fond  of,  she  has  never  played  since  he  left. 
The  book  is  no  longer  in  the  music-stand.  She  took  the  volume 
away  herself,  so  that  nobody  might  find  it  out  and  ask  her  to  play 
from  it. 

I  had  no  opportunity  of  discovering  whether  her  puqDOse  of  the 
morning  had  changed  or  not,  until  she  wished  Sir  Percival  good- 
night— and  then  her  own  words  informed  mc  that  it  was  unaltered. 
She  said,  very  quietly,  that  she  wished  to  speak  to  him  after  break- 
fast, and  that  lie  would  find  her  in  her  sitting-room  with  me.  Ho 
changed  color  at  those  words,  and  I  felt  his  hand  trembling  a  little 
when  it  came  to  my  turn  to  take  it.  The  event  of  the  next  morning 
would  decide  his  future  life  ;  and  he  evidently  knew  it. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE.  147 

I  went  in,  as  usual,  througli  the  door  between  our  two  bedrooms, 
to  bid  Laura  good-night  before  she  went  to  sleep.  In  stooping  over 
her  to  kiss  her,  I  saw  the  little  book  of  Hartright's  drawings  half 
hidden  under  her  pillow,  just  in  the  place  where  she  used  to  hide 
her  favorite  toys  when  she  was  a  child.  I  could  not  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  say  any  thing ;  but  I  pointed  to  the  book  and  shook  my 
head.  She  reached  both  hands  up  to  my  checks,  and  drew  my  face 
down  to  hers  till  our  lips  met. 

"  Leave  it  there  to-night,"  she  whispered ;  "  to-morrow  may  be 
cruel,  and  may  make  me  say  good-bye  to  it  forever." 

^th. — The  first  event  of  the  morning  was  not  of  a  kind  to  raise  my 
spirits ;  a  letter  arrived  for  me,  from  poor  Walter  Hartright.  It  is 
the  answer  to  mine,  describing  the  manner  in  which  Sir  Percival 
cleared  himself  of  the  suspicions  raised  by  Anne  Catherick's  letter. 
He  writes  shortly  and  bitterly  about  Sir  PercivaVs  explanations; 
only  saying  that  he  has  no  right  to  offer  an  opinion  on  the  conduct 
of  those  who  are  above  him.  This  is  sad ;  but  his  occasional  refer- 
ences to  himself  grieve  me  still  more.  He  says  that  the  effort  to  re- 
turn to  his  old  habits  and  pursuits  grows  harder  instead  of  easier 
to  him,  every  day ;  and  he  imjDlores  me,  if  I  have  any  interest,  to 
exert  it  to  get  him  cmploj-ment  that  will  necessitate  his  absence  from 
England,  and  take  him  among  new  scenes  and  new  people.  I  have 
been  made  all  the  readier  to  comjDly  with  this  request,  by  a  passage 
at  the  end  of  his  letter,  which  has  almost  alarmed  me. 

After  mentioning  that  he  has  neither  seen  nor  heard  any  thing  of 
Anne  Catherick,  he  suddenly  breaks  off,  and  hints  in  the  most  ab- 
rupt, mysterious  manner,  that  he  has  been  i^eii^etually  watched  and 
followed  by  strange  men  ever  since  he  returned  to  London.  He  ac- 
knowledges that  he  can  not  j)rove  this  extraordinary  suspicion  by 
fixing  on  any  particular  persons ;  but  he  declares  that  the  suspicion 
itself  is  present  to  him  night  and  day.  This  has  frightened  me,  be- 
cause it  looks  as  if  his  one  fixed  idea  about  Laura  was  becoming  too 
much  for  his  mind.  I  will  write  immediately  to  some  of  my  moth- 
er s  influential  old  friends  in  London,  and  press  his  claims  on  their 
notice.  Change  of  scene  and  change  of  occupation  may  really  bo 
the  salvation  of  him  at  this  crisis  in  his  life. 

Greatly  to  my  relief.  Sir  Percival  sent  an  apology  for  not  joining 
us  at  breakfast.  He  had  taken  an  early  cup  of  coffee  in  his  own 
room,  and  he  was  still  engaged  there  in  writing  letters.  At  eleven 
o'clock,  if  that  hour  was  convenient,  he  would  do  himself  the  honor 
of  waiting  on  Miss  Fairlic  and  Miss  Halcombe. 

My  eyes  were  on  Laura's  face  while  the  message  was  being  deliv- 
ered. I  had  found  her  unaccountably  quiet  and  composed  on  going 
into  her  room  in  the  morning ;  and  so  she  remained  all  through 


148  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

breakfast.  Even  when  we  were  sitting  together  on  the  sofa  in  her 
room,  waiting  for  Sir  Percival,  she  still  jjreserved  her  self-conti-ol. 

"  Don't  ))C  afraid  of  me,  Marian,''  was  all  she  said  :  '*  I  may  forget 
myself  with  an  old  friend  like  Mr.  Gilmore,  or  with  a  dear  sister  like 
you ;  but  I  will  not  forget  myself  with  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

I  looked  at  lier,  and  listened  to  her  in  silent  surprise.  Through 
all  the  years  of  our  close  intimacy,  this  passive  force  in  her  character 
had  been  hidden  from  me — hidden  even  from  herself,  till  love  found 
it,  and  suffering  called  it  forth. 

As  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  struck  eleven.  Sir  Percival  knock- 
ed at  the  door,  and  came  in.  There  was  suppressed  anxiety  and  agi- 
tation in  every  line  of  his  face.  The  dry,  sharj)  cough,  which  teases 
him  at  most  times,  seemed  to  be  troubling  him  more  incessantly  than 
ever.  He  sat  down  oj^posite  to  us  at  the  table,  and  Laura  remained 
by  me.  I  looked  attentively  at  them  both,  and  he  was  the  palest  of 
the  two. 

He  said  a  few  unimportant  words,  with  a  visible  effort  to  jDreserve 
his  customary  ease  of  manner.  But  his  voice  was  not  to  be  steadied, 
and  the  restless  uneasiness  in  his  eyes  was  not  to  be  concealed.  He 
must  have  felt  this  himself;  for  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  sen- 
tence, and  gave  up  even  the  attempt  to  hide  his  embarrassment  any 
longer. 

There  was  just  one  moment  of  dead  silence  before  Laura  addressed 
him. 

"  I  wish  to  speak  to  you.  Sir  Percival,"  she  said,  "  on  a  subject  that 
is  very  important  to  us  both.  My  sister  is  here,  because  her  presence 
helps  me,  and  gives  me  confidence.  She  has  not  suggested  one  word 
of  what  I  am  going  to  say  :  I  speak  from  my  o^ti  thoughts,  not  from 
hers.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  understand  that,  before 
I  go  any  further  ?'' 

Sir  Percival  bowed.  She  had  proceeded  thus  far  with  perfect  out- 
ward tranquillity,  and  perfect  propriety  of  manner.  She  looked  at 
him,  and  he  looked  at  her.  They  seemed,  at  the  outset  at  least,  re- 
solved to  understand  one  another  plainly. 

"  I  have  heard  from  Marian,"  she  went  on, "  that  I  have  only  to 
claim  my  release  from  our  engagement,  to  obtain  that  release  from 
you.  It  was  forbearing  and  generous  on  your  j^art.  Sir  Percival.  to 
send  me  such  a  message.  It  is  only  doing  you  justice  to  say  that  I 
am  grateful  for  the  offer;  and  I  hope  and  believe  that  it  is  only 
doing  myself  justice  to  tell  you  that  I  decline  to  accept  it." 

His  attentive  face  relaxed  a  little.  But  I  saw  one  of  his  feet,  softly, 
quietly,  incessantly  beating  on  the  carjiet  under  the  table ;  and  I  felt 
that  he  was  secretly  as  anxious  as  ever. 

*'  I  have  not  forgotten,"  she  said,  "that  you  asked  my  father's  per- 
mission Ijefore  you  honored  me  with  a  proposal  of  marriage.     Per- 


THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE.  149 

haps  you  have  not  forgotten,  either,  what  I  said  Avhen  I  consented  to 
our  engagement  ?  I  ventured  to  tell  you  that  my  father's  influence 
and  advice  had  mainly  decided  me  to  give  you  my  promise.  I  was 
guided  by  my  father,  because  I  had  always  found  him  the  truest  of 
all  advisers,  the  best  and  fondest  of  all  protectors  and  friends.  I 
have  lost  him  now ;  I  have  only  his  memory  to  love ;  but  my  faith 
in  that  dear  dead  friend  has  never  been  shaken.  I  believe  at  this  mo- 
ment, as  truly  as  I  ever  believed,  that  he  knew  what  was  best,  and 
that  his  hopes  and  wishes  ought  to  be  my  hopes  and  wishes  too." 

Her  voice  trembled,  for  the  first  time.  Her  restless  fingers  stole 
their  way  into  my  lap,  and  held  fast  by  one  of  my  hands.  There 
was  another  moment  of  silence,  and  then  Sir  Percival  spoke. 

"  May  I  ask,"  he  said,  "  if  I  have  ever  proved  myself  unworthy  of 
the  trust,  which  it  has  been  hitherto  my  greatest  honor  and  greatest 
happiness  to  possess  ?" 

"  I  have  found  nothing  in  your  conduct  to  blame,"  she  answered. 
"  You  have  always  treated  me  with  the  same  delicacy  and  the  same 
forbearance.  You  have  deserved  my  trust ;  and,  what  is  of  far  more 
importance  in  my  estimation,  you  have  deserved  my  father's  trust, 
out  of  which  mine  grew.  You  have  given  me  no  excuse,  even  if  I 
had  wanted  to  find  one,  for  asking  to  be  released  from  my  i)ledge. 
What  I  have  said  so  far,  has  been  spoken  with  the  wish  to  acknowl- 
edge my  whole  obligation  to  you.  My  regard  for  that  obligation, 
my  regard  for  my  father's  memory,  and  my  regard  for  my  own  i3rom- 
ise,  all  forbid  me  to  set  the  example,  on  my  side,  of  withdrawing  from 
our  present  position.  The  breaking  of  our  engagement  must  be  en- 
tirely your  wish  and  your  act.  Sir  Percival — not  mine," 

The  uneasy  beating  of  his  foot  suddenly  stopped ;  and  he  leaned 
forward  eagerly  across  the  table. 

"  My  act  ?"  he  said.  "  Wliat  reason  can  there  be,  on  my  side,  for 
withdrawing  ?" 

I  heard  her  breath  quickening ;  I  felt  her  hand  growing  cold.  In 
spite  of  what  she  had  said  to  me  when  we  were  alone,  I  began  to  be 
afraid  of  her.     I  was  wrong. 

"  A  reason  that  it  is  very  hard  to  tell  you,"  she  answered.  "  There 
is  a  change  in  me,  Sir  Percival — a  change  which  is  serious  enough 
to  justify  you,  to  yourself  and  to  me,  in  breaking  oft'  om-  engage- 
ment." 

His  face  turned  so  pale  again,  that  even  his  lips  lost  their  color. 
He  raised  the  arm  which  lay  on  the  table;  turned  a  little  away  in 
his  chair ;  and  supported  his  head  on  his  hand,  so  that  his  profile 
only  vras  presented  to  us. 

"  Vrhat  change  ?"  he  asked.  The  tone  in  which  he  put  the  ques- 
tion jarred  on  me — there  was  something  painfully  suppressed  in  it. 

She  sighed  heavily,  and  leaned  toward  me  a  little,  so  as  to  rest  her 


160  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

sliouldcr  against  mine.  I  felt  lier  trembling,  and  tried  to  spare  her 
by  speaking  myself.  She  stopped  me  l)y  a  ^varning  pressure  of  her 
hand,  and  then  ad(h*essed  Sir  Pcreival  once  more ;  but  this  time 
■without  looking  at  him. 

"  I  liave  heard,"  she  said, "  and  I  believe  it,  that  the  fondest  and 
truest  of  all  aflections  is  the  afieetion  Avhich  a  woman  ought  to  bear 
to  her  husband.  When  our  engagement  began,  that  aflfection  was 
mine  to  give,  if  I  could,  and  yours  to  win,  if  you  could.  Will  you 
pardon  me,  and  spare  me,  Sir  Pereival,  if  I  acknowledge  that  it  is  not 
80  any  longer  ?" 

A  few  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,  and  dropped  over  her  cheeks 
slowly,  as  she  paused  and  waited  for  his  answer.  He  did  not  utter 
a  word.  At  the  beginning  of  her  reply,  he  had  moved  the  hand  on 
which  his  head  rested,  so  that  it  hid  his  face.  I  saw  nothing  but 
the  upper  irart  of  his  figure  at  the  table.  Not  a  muscle  of  him 
moved.  The  fingers  of  the  hand  which  suj^ported  his  head  were 
dented  deep  in  his  hair.  They  might  have  expressed  hidden  anger, 
or  hidden  grief— it  was  hard  to  say  which — there  was  no  significant 
trembling  in  them.  There  was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  tell 
the  secret  of  his  thoughts  at  that  moment — the  moment  Avhich  was 
the  crisis  of  his  life  and  the  crisis  of  hers, 

I  was  determined  to  make  him  declare  himself,  for  Laura's  sake. 

"  Su-  Pereival !"  I  interposed,  sharply,  "  have  you  nothing  to  say, 
when  my  sister  has  said  so  much  ?  More,  in  my  opinion,"  I  added, 
my  unlucky  temper  getting  the  better  of  me,  "  than  any  man  alive, 
in  your  position,  has  a  right  to  hear  from  her." 

That  last  rash  sentence  opened  a'way  for  him  by  Mhich  to  escape 
me  if  he  chose;  and  he  instantly  took  advantage  of  it. 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said,  still  keeping  his  hand  over 
his  face — "  pardon  me,  if  I  remind  you  that  I  have  claimed  no  such 
right." 

The  few  plain  words  which  would  have  brought  him  back  to  the 
point  from  which  he  had  wandered  were  just  on  my  lips,  when 
Laura  checked  me  l)y  speaking  again. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  made  my  painful  acknowledgment  in  vain," 
she  continued.  "  I  hope  it  has  secured  me  your  entire  confidence  in 
what  I  have  still  to  say  ?" 

"  Pray  be  assured  of  it."  He  made  that  brief  reply,  warmly ;  drop- 
ping his  hand  on  the  table  while  he  spoke,  and  turning  toward  us 
again.  Whatever  outward  change  had  passed  over  him,  was  gone 
now.  His  face  was  eager  and  expectant — it  expressed  nothing  but 
the  most  intense  anxiety  to  hear  her  next  words. 

"  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I  have  not  spoken  from  any  selfish 
motive,"  she  said.  "  If  you  leave  me.  Sir  Pereival,  after  what  you 
Lave  just  heard,  you  do  not  leave  me  to  marry  another  man — you 


TUE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE.  151 

only  allow  me  to  remain  a  single  woman  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  My 
fault  toward  you  has  begun  and  ended  in  my  own  thoughts.  It  can 
never  go  any  further.  No  word  has  passed — "  She  hesitated,  in 
doubt  about  the  expression  she  should  use  next ;  hesitated,  in  a  mo- 
mentary confusion  which  it  was  very  sad  and  very  painful  to  see, 
"iS'o  word  has  passed,"' she  patiently  and  resolutely  resumed,  "be- 
tween myself  and  the  person  to  whom  I  am  now  referring  for  the 
first  and  last  time  in  your  presence,  of  my  feelings  toward  him,  or  of 
liis  feelings  toward  me — no  word  ever  can  pass — neither  he  nor  I  are 
likely,  in  this  world,  to  meet  again.  I  earnestly  beg  you  to  spare  me 
from  saying  any  more,  and  to  believe  me,  on  my  word,  in  what  I 
liave  just  told  you.  It  is  the  truth,  Sir  Percival — the  truth  which  I 
think  my  promised  husband  has  a  claim  to  hear,  at  any  sacrifice  of 
my  own  feelings.  I  trust  to  his  generosity  to  pardon  me,  and  to  his 
honor  to  keep  my  secret.'' 

"  Both  those  trusts  are  sacred  to  mc,''  he  said,  "  and  both  shall  be 
sacredly  kept." 

After  answering  in  those  terms,  he  paused,  and  looked  at  her,  as 
if  he  was  waiting  to  hear  more. 

"  I  have  said  all  I  wish  to  say,"  she  added,  quietly — "  I  have  said 
more  than  enough  to  justify  you  in  withdrawing  from  your  engage- 
ment." 

"  You  have  said  more  than  enough,"  he  answered,  "  to  make  it  the 
dearest  object  of  my  life  to  Tceej)  the  engagement."  With  those  words 
he  rose  from  his  chair,  and  advanced  a  few  steps  toward  the  place 
where  she  was  sitting. 

She  started  violently,  and  a  faint  cry  of  surprise  escaped  her.  Ev- 
ery word  she  had  spoken  had  innocently  betrayed  her  purity  and 
truth  to  a  man  who  thoroughly  understood  the  priceless  value  of  a 
pure  and  true  woman.  Her  own  noble  conduct  had  been  the  hid- 
den enemy,  throughout,  of  all  the  hopes  she  had  trusted  to  it.  I  had 
dreaded  this  from  the  first.  I  would  have  prevented  it,  if  she  had 
allowed  me  the  smallest  chance  of  doing  so.  I  even  waited  and 
watched,  now,  when  the  harm  was  done,  for  a  word  from  Sir  Per- 
cival that  would  give  me  the  opportunity  of  putting  him  in  the 
wrong. 

"  You  have  left  it  to  me,  i\Iis3  Fairlie,  to  resign  you,"  he  continued. 
"  I  am  not  heartless  enough  to  resign  a  woman  who  has  just  shown 
herself  to  be  the  noblest  of  her  sex." 

He  spoke  with  such  warmth  and  feeling,  with  such  passionate  en- 
thusiasm, and  yet  with  such  perfect  delicacy,  that  she  raised  her 
head,  flushed  up  a  little,  and  looked  at  him  with  sudden  animation 
and  spirit. 

"  No  !"'  she  said,  firmly.  "  The  most  wetched  of  her  sex,  if  she 
must  give  herself  in  marriage  when  she  can  not  give  her  love." 


152  THE    AVOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

"May  she  not  give  it  in  the  future,"  he  asked, "  if  the  one  object 
of  her  husband's  life  is  to  deserve  it  ?" 

"Never!''  she  answered.  "If  you  still  persist  in  maintaining  our 
engagement,  I  may  be  your  true  and  fiiithful  wife,  Sir  Percival — your 
loving  wife,  if  I  know  my  own  heart,  never!" 

She  looked  so  irresistibly  beautiful  as  she  said  those  brave  words 
that  no  man  alive  could  liave  steeled  his  lieart  against  her.  I  tried 
hard  to  feel  that  Sir  Percival  was  to  blame,  and  to  say  so,  but  my 
Tomanhood  would  pity  him,  in  spite  of  myself 

"I  gratefully  accej^t  your  faith  and  truth,"  he  said.  "The  least 
that  7/ou  can  offer  is  more  to  me  than  the  utmost  that  I  could  hope 
for  from  any  other  w^oman  in  the  world." 

Her  left  hand  still  held  mine ;  but  her  right  hand  hung  listlessly 
at  her  side.  He  raised  it  gently  to  his  lips — touched  it  with  them, 
rather  than  kissed  it — bowed  to  me — and  then,  with  perfect  delica- 
cy and  discretion,  silently  quitted  the  room. 

She  neither  moved  nor  said  a  word,  w^hen  he  was  gone — she  sat 
by  me,  cold  and  still,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  I  saw  it 
was  hopeless  and  useless  to  speak ;  and  I  only  put  my  arm  round 
her,  and  held  her  to  me  in  silence.  We  remained  together  fo,  for 
■what  seemed  a  long  and  weary  time — so  long  and  so  weary,  that  I 
grew  uneasy  and  spoke  to  her  softly,  in  the  hope  of  producing  a 
change. 

The  sound  of  my  voice  seemed  to  startle  her  into  consciousness. 
She  suddenly  drew  herself  away  from  me,  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  I  must  submit,  Marian^  as  well  as  I  can,"  she  said.  "  My  new  life 
has  its  hard  duties;  and  one  of  them  begins  to-day." 

As  she  spoke,  she  w^ent  to  a  side-table  near"  the  window,  on  which 
her  sketching  materials  were  placed ;  gathered  them  together  care- 
fully ;  and  put  them  in  a  drawer  of  her  cabinet.  She  locked  the 
drawer,  and  brought  the  key  to  me. 

"I  must  part  from  every  thing  that  reminds  me  of  him,"  she  said. 
"  Keep  the  key  wherever  you  please — I  shall  never  want  it  again." 

Before  I  could  say  a  word,  she  had  turned  away  to  her  book-case, 
and  had  taken  from  it  the  album  that  contained  "Walter  Hartright's 
drawings.  She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  holding  the  little  volume 
fondly  in  her  hands — then  lifted  it  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it. 

"Oh,  Laura!  Laura!"  I  said,  not  angrily,  not  reprovingly  —  with 
nothing  but  sorrow  in  my  voice,  and  notliing  but  sorrow  in  my 
heart. 

"  It  is  the  last  time,  Marian,"  she  pleaded.  "  I  am  bidding  it 
good-bye  forever." 

She  laid  the  book  on  the  table,  and  drew  out  the  comb  that  fast- 
ened her  hair.  It  fell,  in  its  matchless  beauty,  over  her  back  and 
shoulders,  and  dropped  round  her,  far  below  her  waist.     She  sepa- 


AND    PIXXED   IT   CAREFULLY   IX    THE    FORM    OF   A    CIRCLE. 


THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE.  155 

rated  one  long,  thin  lock  from  the  rest,  cut  it  off,  and  pinned  it  care- 
fully, in  the  form  of  a  circle,  on  the  first  blank  page  of  the  album. 
The  moment  it  was  flistened  she  closed  the  volume  hurriedly,  and 
placed  it  in  my  hands. 

"  You  write  to  him,  and  he  writes  to  you,"  she  said.  "  While  I 
am  alive,  if  he  asks  after  me,  always  tell  him  I  am  well,  and  never 
say  I  am  unhappy.  Don't  distress  him,  Marian — for  my  sake,  don't 
distress  him.  If  I  die  first,  promise  you  will  give  him  this  little 
book  of  his  drawings,  with  my  hair  in  it.  There  can  be  no  harm, 
when  I  am  gone,  in  telling  him  that  I  put  it  there  with  my  own 
hands.  And  say — oh,  Marian,  say  for  me,  then,  what  I  can  never  say 
for  myself — say  I  loved  him !" 

She  flung  her  arms  round  my  neck,  and  whispered  the  last  words 
in  my  ear  with  a  passionate  delight  in  uttering  them  w^hich  it  almost 
broke  my  heart  to  hear.  All  the  long  restraint  she  had  imposed  on 
herself  gave  way  in  that  first,  last  outburst  of  tenderness.  She  broke 
from  me  with  hysterical  vehemence,  and  threw  herself  on  the  sofa,  in 
a  paroxysm  of  sobs  and  tears  that  shook  her  from  head  to  foot. 

I  tried  vainly  to  soothe  her  and  reason  with  her;  she  was  past 
being  soothed,  and  past  being  reasoned  with.  It  was  the  sad,  sud- 
den end  for  us  two,  of  this  memorable  day.  When  the  fit  had  worn 
itself  out,  she  was  too  exhausted  to  speak.  She  slumbered  toward 
the  afternoon ;  and  I  put  aw^ay  the  book  of  drawings,  so  that  she 
might  not  see  it  when  she  w^oke.  My  face  was  calm,  whatever  my 
heart  might  be,  when  she  opened  her  eyes  again  and  looked  at  me. 
We  said  no  more  to  each  other  about  the  distressing  interview  of 
the  morning.  Sir  Percival's  name  was  not  mentioned.  Walter 
Hartright  was  not  alluded  to  again  by  either  of  us  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day. 

lOtli. — Finding  that  she  was  composed  and  like  herself,  this  morn- 
ing, I  returned  to  the  painful  subject  of  yesterday,  for  the  sole  pur- 
pose of  imploring  her  to  let  me  speak  to  Sir  Percival  and  Mr.  Fair- 
lie,  more  plainly  and  strongly  than  she  could  speak  to  either  of  them 
herself,  about  this  lamentable  marriage.  She  interposed,  gently  but 
firmly,  in  the  middle  of  my  remonstrances. 

"I  left  yesterday  to  decide," she  said ;  "  and  yesterday  has  decided. 
It  is  too  late  to  go  back." 

Sir  Percival  spoke  to  me  this  afternoon,  about  what  had  passed  in 
Laura's  room.  He  assured  me  that  the  unparalleled  trust  she  had 
placed  in  him  had  awakened  such  an  answering  conviction  of  her 
innocence  and  integrity  in  his  mind,  that  he  was  guiltless  of  having 
felt  even  a  moment's  unwort)iy  jealousy,  either  at  the  time  when  he 
was  in  her  presence,  or  afterward  when  he  had  withdrawn  from  it. 
Deeply  as  he  lamented  the  unfeHunate  attachment  which  had  hin- 


156  THE    AVOMAN    IN  WHITE. 

dcrcd  the  progress  lie  miglit  other^'isc  have  made  in  her  esteem 
and  regard,  he  iirmly  believed  that  it  had  remained  unacknowl- 
edged in  the  i:)ast,  and  that  it  would  remain,  under  all  changes  of 
circumstance  which  it  was  possible  to  contemplate,  unacknowledged 
in  the  future.  This  was  his  absolute  conviction ;  and  the  strongest 
proof  he  could  give  of  it  was  the  assurance,  which  he  now  offered, 
that  he  felt  no  curiosity  to  know  whether  the  attachment  was  of 
recent  date  or  not,  or  who  had  been  the  object  of  it.  His  implicit 
confidence  in  Miss  Fairlie  made  him  satisfied  with  what  she  had 
thought  fit  to  say  to  him,  and  he  was  honestly  innocent  of  the 
slightest  feeling  of  anxiety  to  hear  more. 

He  waited,  after  saying  those  words,  and  looked  at  me.  I  was  so 
conscious  of  my  unreasonable  prejudice  against  him — so  conscious 
of  an  unworthy  suspicion  that  he  might  be  speculating  on  my  im- 
pulsively answering  the  very  questions  which  he  had  just  described 
himself  as  resolved  not  to  ask — that  I  evaded  all  reference  to  this 
part  of  the  subject  with  something  like  a  feeling  of  confusion  on  my 
own  part.  At  the  same  time,  I  was  resolved  not  to  lose  even  the 
smallest  opportunity  of  trying  to  plead  Laura's  cause ;  and  I  told 
him  boldly  that  I  regretted  his  generosity  had  not  carried  him  one 
step  farther,  and  induced  him  to  withdraw  from  the  engagement  al- 
together. 

Here,  again,  he  disarmed  me  by  not  attempting  to  defend  himself. 
He  would  merely  beg  me  to  remember  the  difference  there  was  be- 
tween his  allowing  Miss  Fairlie  to  give  him  up,  which  was  a  matter 
of  submission  only,  and  his  forcing  himself  to  give  up  Miss  Fairlie, 
which  was,  in  other  words,  asking  him  to  be  the  suicide  of  his  own 
hopes.  Her  conduct  of  the  day  before  had  so  strengthened  the  un- 
changeable love  and  admiration  of  two  long  years,  that  all  active 
contention  against  those  feelings,  on  his  part,  was  henceforth  entirely 
out  of  his  power.  I  must  think  him  weak,  selfish,  unfeeling  toward 
the  very  woman  whom  he  idolized,  and  he  must  bow  to  my  opinion 
as  resignedly  as  he  could ;  only  putting  it  to  me,  at  the  same  time, 
whether  her  future  as  a  single  woman,  pining  under  an  unhappily 
placed  attachment  which  she  could  never  acknowledge,  could  be 
said  to  promise  her  a  much  brighter  prospect  than  her  future  as  the 
wife  of  a  man  who  worshiped  the  very  ground  she  walked  on  ?  In 
the  last  case  there  was  hope  from  time,  however  slight  it  might  be — 
in  the  first  case,  on  her  own  showing,  there  was  no  hope  at  all. 

I  answerc'l  aim — more  because  my  tongue  is  a  woman's,  and  must 
answer,  than  because  I  had  any  thing  convincing  to  say.  It  was 
only  too  plain  that  the  course  Laura  had  adopted  the  day  before, 
had  offered  him  the  advantage  if  he  chose  to  take  it— and  that  he 
had  chosen  to  take  it.  I  felt  this  at  the  time,  and  I  feel  it  just  as 
strongly  now,  while  I  write  these  lines,  in  my  owm  room.     The  one 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  157 

hope  left  is  that  his  motives  really  spring,  as  he  says  they  do,  from 
the  irresistible  strength  of  liis  attachment  to  Laura, 

Before  I  close  my  diary  for  to-night,  I  must  record  that  I  wrote  to- 
day, in  poor  Hartright's  interests,  to  two  of  my  mother's  old  friends 
in  London — both  men  of  influence  and  position.  If  they  can  do  a2iy 
thing  for  him,  I  am  quite  sure  they  will.  Except  Laura,  I  never  was 
more  anxious  about  any  one  than  I  am  now  about  Walter,  All  that 
has  happened  since  he  left  us  has  only  increased  my  strong  regard 
and  sympathy  for  him,  I  hope  I  am  doing  right  in  trying  to  help 
him  to  employment  abroad — I  hope,  most  earnestly  and  anxiously, 
that  it  will  end  well. 

11th. — Sir  Percival  had  an  interview  with  Mr.  Fairlie;  and  I  was 
sent  for  to  join  them. 

I  found  Mr.  Fairlie  greatly  relieved  at  the  prospect  of  the  "family 
worry  "  (as  he  was  jdI eased  to  describe  his  niece's  marriage)  being 
settled  at  last.  So  far  I  did  not  feel  called  on  to  say  any  thing  to 
him  about  my  own  opinion ;  but  when  he  proceeded,  in  his  most  ag- 
gravatingly  languid  manner,  to  suggest  that  the  time  for  the  mar- 
riage had  better  be  settled  next,  in  accordance  with  Sir  Percival's 
wishes,  I  enjoyed  the  satisfaction  of  assailing  Mr.  Fairlie's  nerves 
with  as  strong  a  protest  against  hurrying  Laura's  decision  as  I  could 
put  into  words.  Sir  Percival  immediately  assured  me  that  he  felt 
the  force  of  my  objection,  and  begged  me  to  believe  that  the  pro- 
posal had  not  been  made  in  consequence  of  any  interference  on  his 
part,  Mr,  Fairlie  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  closed  his  eyes,  said  we 
both  of  us  did  honor  to  human  nature,  and  then  repeated  his  sug- 
gestion, as  coolly  as  if  neither  Sir  Percival  nor  I  had  said  a  word  in 
opposition  to  it.  It  ended  in  my  flatly  declining  to  mention  the 
subject  to  Laura,  unless  she  first  approached  it  of  her  own  accord. 
I  left  the  room  at  once  after  making  that  declaration.  Sir  Percival 
looked  seriously  embarrassed  and  distressed.  Mr.  Fairlie  stretched 
out  his  lazy  legs  on  his  velvet  footstool,  and  said,  "  Dear  Marian  ! 
how  I  envy  you  your  robust  nervous  system !  Don't  bang  the 
door !'' 

On  going  to  Laura's  room,  I  found  that  she  had  asked  for  me,  and 
that  Mrs,  Vesey  had  informed  her  that  I  was  with  Mr.  Fairlie.  She 
inquired  at  once  what  I  had  been  Avanted  for;  and  I  told  her  all 
that  had  passed,  without  attempting  to  conceal  the  vexation  and 
annoyance  that  I  really  felt.  Her  answer  surprised  and  distressed 
me  inexpressibly ;  it  was  the  very  last  reply  that  I  should  have  ex- 
pected her  to  make, 

"My  uncle  is  right,"  she  said.  "I  have  caused  trouble  and  anxie- 
ty enough  to  you,  and  to  all  about  me.  Let  me  cause  no  more,  Ma- 
rian— let  Sir  Percival  decide." 


158  THE    WOMAX    IN    WHITE. 

I  remonstrated  warmly ;  but  nothing  that  I  could  say  moved  her. 

''I  am  held  to  my  engagement," she  replied;  "I  have  broken  with 
my  old  life.  The  evil  day  will  not  come  the  less  surely  because  I 
put  it  off.  No,  Marian !  once  again,  my  uncle  is  right.  I  have 
caused  trouble  enough  and  anxiety  enough ;  and  I  will  cause  no 
more." 

She  used  to  be  pliability  itself;  but  she  was  now  inflexibly  passive 
in  her  resignation — I  might  almost  say  in  her  despau*.  Dearly  as  I 
love  her,  I  should  have  been  less  pained  if  she  had  been  violently 
agitated ;  it  was  so  shockingly  unlike  her  natural  character  to  see 
her  as  cold  and  insensible  as  I  saw  her  now. 

12th. — Sir  Percival  put  some  questions  to  me  at  breakfast  about 
Laura,  which  left  me  no  choice  but  to  tell  him  what  she  had  said. 

While  we  were  talking,  she  herself  came  down  and  joined  us.  She 
was  just  as  unnaturally  composed  in  Sir  Percival's  presence  as  she 
had  been  in  mine.  When  breakfast  was  over,  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  saying  a  few  words  to  her  privately,  in  a  recess  of  one  of  the  win- 
dows. They  were  not  more  than  two  or  three  minutes  together ;  and, 
on  their  separating,  she  left  the  room  with  Mrs.  Vesey,  while  Sir  Per- 
cival came  to  me.  He  said  he  had  entreated  her  to  favor  him  by 
maintaining  her  privilege  of  fixing  the  time  for  the  marriage  at  her 
own  will  and  pleasure.  In  reply,  she  had  merely  expressed  her  ac- 
knowledgments, and  had  desired  him  to  mention  what  his  wishes 
were  to  Miss  Halcombe. 

I  have  no  patience  to  write  more.  In  this  instance,  as  in  every 
other.  Sir  Percival  has  carried  his  point,  with  the  utmost  possible 
credit  to  himself,  in  spite  of  every  thing  that  I  can  say  or  do.  His 
wishes  are  now  what  they  were,  of  course,  when  he  first  came  here ; 
and  Laura  having  resigned  herself  to  the  one  inevitable  sacrifice  of 
the  marriage,  remains  as  coldly  hoi3eless  and  enduring  as  ever.  In 
parting  with  the  little  occupations  and  relics  that  reminded  her  of 
Hartright,  she  seems  to  have  parted  with  all  her  tenderness  and  all 
her  impressibility.  It  is  only  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  while  I 
write  these  lines,  and  Sir  Percival  has  left  us  already,  in  the  happy 
hurry  of  a  bridegroom,  to  prepare  for  the  bride's  reception  at  his 
house  in  Hampshire.  Unless  some  extraordinary  event  happens  to 
prevent  it,  they  will  be  married  exactly  at  the  time  when  he  wished 
to  be  married — before  the  end  of  the  year.  My  very  fingers  burn  as 
I  write  it ! 

l^th. — A  sleepless  night,  through  uneasiness  about  Laura.  Toward 
the  morning  I  came  to  a  resolution  to  try  what  change  of  scene  would 
do  to  rouse  her.  She  can  not  surely  remain  in  her  present  toipor  of 
insensibility,  if  I  take  licr  away  from  Limmcridge  and  surround  her 


THE    WOMAN    IX    "WHITE.  159 

with  tli3  pleasant  faces  of  old  friends  ?  After  some  consideration,  I 
decidf  d  on  writing  to  the  Arnolds,  in  Yorkshire,  They  are  simple, 
Ivind-hearted,  hospitable  people,  and  she  has  known  them  from  her 
childhood.  When  I  had  put  the  letter  in  the  post-bag,  I  told  her 
what  I  had  done.  It  would  have  been  a  relief  to  me  if  she  had 
sho-wn  the  spirit  to  resist  and  object.  But  no — she  only  said,  '*  I  will 
go  anywhere  with  you.  Marian.  I  dare  say  you  are  right — I  dare  say 
the  change  will  do  me  good.^' 

\Uh. — I  wrote  to  Mr,  Gilmore,  informing  him  that  there  was  really 
a  prospect  of  this  miserable  marriage  taking  place,  and  also  mention- 
ing my  idea  of  trying  what  change  of  scene  would  do  for  Laura.  I 
had  no  heart  to  go  into  particulars.  Time  enough  for  them  when 
we  get  nearer  to  the  end  of  the  year. 

15^A.-^Three  letters  for  me.  The  first,  from  the  Arnolds,  full  of 
delight  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  Laura  and  me.  The  second,  from 
one  of  the  gentlemen  to  whom  I  wrote  on  Walter  Hartright's  behalf, 
informing  me  that  he  has  been  fortunate  enough  to  find  an  ojoportu- 
nity  of  complying  with  my  request.  The  third,  from  Walter  him- 
self; thanking  me,  poor  fellow,  in  the  wannest  terms,  for  giving  him 
an  opportunity  of  leaving  his  home,  his  country,  and  his  friends.  A 
private  expedition  to  make  excavations  among  the  ruined  cities  of 
Central  America  is,  it  seems,  about  to  sail  from  LiverjDool.  The 
draughtsman  who  had  been  already  appointed  to  accompany  it  has 
lost  heart,  and  withdrawn  at  the  eleventh  hour  ;  and  Walter  is  to  fill 
his  place.  He  is  to  be  engaged  for  six  months  certain,  from  the  time 
of  the  landing  in  Honduras,  and  for  a  year  afterward,  if  the  excava- 
tions are  successful,  and  if  the  funds  hold  out.  His  letter  ends  with 
a  promise  to  write  me  a  farewell  line  when  they  are  all  on  board  ship, 
and  when  the  pilot  leaves  them.  I  can  only  hope  and  pray  earnestly 
that  he  and  I  are  both  acting  in  this  matter  for  the  best.  It  seems 
such  a  serious  step  for  him  to  take,  that  the  mere  contemplation  of  it 
startles  me.  And  yet,  in  his  unhappy  position,  how  can  I  expect  him, 
or  wish  him,  to  remain  at  home  ? 

\Wh. — The  carriage  is  at  the  door,  Laura  and  I  set  out  on  our 
visit  to  the  Arnolds  to-day. 

Polesdean  Lodge,  Yorkshire, 
22>d. — A  week  in  these  new  scenes  and  among  these  kind-hearted 
people  has  done  her  some  good,  though  not  so  much  as  I  had  hoped. 
I  have  resolved  to  prolong  our  stay  for  another  week  at  least.  It  is 
useless  to  go  back  to  Limmeridge,  till  there  is  an  absolute  necessity 
for  our  return. 


160  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

24f/<.-'Sa(l  news  ])y  this  morning's  i)ost.  The  expedition  '^o  Cen- 
tral  America  sailed  on  tlie  twenty-first.  Wc  have  parted  with  a  true 
man  ;  we  have  lost  a  faithful  friend.  Walter  Ilartright  has  left  En- 
gland. 

25^^. — Sad  news  yesterday;  ominous  news  to-dtiy.  Sir  Percival 
Glyde  has  written  to  Mr.  Fairlie;  and  Mr.  Fairlie  has  written  to  Lau- 
ra and  me,  to  recall  us  to  Limmeridge  immediately. 

"What  can  this  mean  ?  Has  the  day  for  the  marriage  been  hxed  in 
our  absence  ? 

II. 

Limmeridge  House. 

November  27th. — My  forebodings  are  realized.  The  marriage  is 
fixed  for  the  twenty-second  of  December. 

The  day  after  we  left  for  Polesdean  Lodge,  Sir  Percival  wrote,  it 
seems,  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  to  say  that  the  necessary  repairs  and  alterations 
in  his  house  in  Hampshire  would  occupy  a  much  longer  time  in 
completion  than  he  had  originally  anticijDated.  The  proper  esti- 
mates were  to  be  submitted  to  him  as  soon  as  possible;  and  it 
would  greatly  fticilitate  his  entering  into  definite  arrangements 
with  the  work-i^eople,  if  he  could  be  informed  of  the  exact  i)eriod 
at  which  the  wedding  ceremony  might  be  expected  to  take  place. 
He  could  then  make  all  his  calculations  with  reference  to  time,  be- 
sides writing  the  necessary  apologies  to  friends  who  had  been  en- 
gaged to  visit  him  that  winter,  and  who  could  not,  of  course,  be  re- 
ceived when  the  house  was  in  the  hands  of  the  workmen. 

To  this  letter  ]Mr.  Fairlie  had  rej^lied  by  requesting  Sir  Percival 
himself  to  suggest  a  day  for  the  marriage,  subject  to  Miss  Fairlie's 
approval,  which  her  guardian  willingly  undertook  to  do  his  best  to 
obtain.  Sir  Percival  wrote  back  by  the  next  post,  and  proposed  (in 
accordance  with  his  own  views  and  wishes  from  the  first)  the  latter 
part  of  December — perhaps  the  twenty-second,  or  twenty-fourth,  or 
any  other  day  that  the  lady  and  her  guardian  might  prefer.  The 
lady  not  being  at  hand  to  speak  for  herself,  her  guardian  had  de- 
cided, in  iicr  absence,  on  the  earliest  day  mentioned — the  twenty- 
second  of  December — and  had  written  to  recall  us  to  Limmeridge 
in  consequence. 

After  explaining  these  particulars  to  me  at  a  private  interview 
yesterday,  Mr.  Fairlie  suggested,  in  his  most  amiable  manner,  that  I 
should  open  the  necessary  negotiations  to-day.  Feeling  that  re- 
sistance was  useless,  unless  I  could  first  obtain  Laura's  authority  to 
make  it,  I  consented  to  speak  to  her,  but  declared,  at  the  same  time, 
that  I  would  on  no  consideration  undertake  to  gain  her  consent  to 
Sir  Percival's  wishes.  Mr,  Fairlie  complimented  me  on  my  "  excel- 
lent conscience,"  much  as  he  would  have  complimented  me,  if  we 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  161 

had  been  out  •walking,  on  my  "  excellent  constitution,^'  and  seemed 
jDcrfectly  satisfied,  so  far,  %vitli  having  simply  shifted  one  more  fami- 
ly responsibility  from  his  own  shoulders  to  mine. 

This  morning  I  spoke  to  Laura,  as  I  had  promised.  The  compos- 
ure— I  may  almost  say,  th.e  insensibility — which  slie  has  so  strange- 
ly and  so  resolutely  maintained  ever  since  Sir  Percival  left  us,  v.-as 
not  proof  against  the  shock  of  the  news  I  had  to  tell  her.  She 
turned  pale,  and  trembled  violently. 

"Not  so  soon  !"  she  pleaded.     "  Oh,  Marian,  not  so  soon  !" 

The  slightest  hint  she  could  give  was  enough  for  me.  I  rose  to 
leave  the  room,  and  fight  her  battle  for  her  at  once  with  Mr.  Fairlie. 

Just  as  my  hand  was  on  the  door,  she  caught  fast  hold  of  my 
dress  and  stopped  me. 

"  Let  me  go  !"  I  said.  "  My  tongue  burns  to  tell  your  uncle  that 
he  and  Sir  Percival  are  not  to  have  it  all  their  own  way." 

She  sighed  bitterly,  and  still  held  my  dress. 

"  No  !"  she  said,  faintly.     "  Too  late,  Marian,  too  late  !" 

"Not  a  minute  too  late,"  I  retorted.  "  The  c|uestion  of  time  is  ovr 
question — and  trust  me,  Laura,  to  take  a  woman's  full  advantage  of  it." 

I  unclasped  her  hand  from  my  gown  while  I  spoke ;  but  she  slip- 
ped both  her  arms  round  my  waist  at  the  same  moment,  and  held 
me  more  efiectually  than  ever. 

"It  will  only  involve  us  in  more  trouble  and  more  confusion,"  she 
said.  "  It  will  set  you  and  my  uncle  at  variance,  and  bring  Sir  Per- 
cival here  again  with  fresh  causes  of  complaint — " 

"  So  much  the  better !"  I  cried  out,  passionately.  "  Who  cares  for 
his  causes  of  complaint  ?  Are  you  to  break  your  heart  to  set  his 
mind  at  case  ?  No  man  under  heaven  deserves  these  sacrifices  from 
us  women.  Men  !  They  are  the  enemies  of  our  innocence  and  our 
peace — they  drag  us  away  from  our  parents'  love  and  our  sisters' 
friendship — they  take  us,  body  and  soul,  to  themselves,  and  fasten 
our  helpless  lives  to  theirs  as  they  chain  uj)  a  dog  to  his  kennel. 
And  what  does  the  best  of  them  give  us  in  retuni  ?  Let  me  go, 
Laura — I'm  mad  when  I  think  of  it !" 

The  tears — miserable,  weak,  women's  tears  of  vexation  and  rage — 
started  to  my  eyes.  She  smiled  sadly,  and  put  her  handkerchief 
over  my  face,  to  hide  for  me  the  betrayal  of  my  own  weakness — the 
weakness  of  all  other's  which  she  knew  that  I  most  despised. 

"Oh,  Marian!"  she  said.  ^'You  crying!  Think  what  you  would 
say  to  me  if  the  places  were  changed,  and  if  those  tears  were  mine. 
All  your  love  and  courage  and  devotion  will  not  alter  what  must 
happen,  sooner  or  later.  Let  my  uncle  have  his  way.  Let  us  have 
no  more  troubles  and  heart-burnings  that  any  sacrifice  of  mine  can 
prevent.  Say  you  -vNdll  live  with  me,  Marian,  when  I  am  married—- 
and  say  no  more." 


162  THK    WOMAN   IX    WHITE. 

But  I  did  say  more.  I  forced  back  the  contemptible  tears  that 
were  no  relief  to  me,  and  that  only  distressed  Jier;  and  reasoned 
and  pleaded  as  calmly  as  I  could.  It  was  of  no  avail.  She  made 
me  twice  repeat  the  promise  to  live  with  her  when  she  w^as  married, 
and  then  suddenly  asked  a  question  which  turned  my  sorrow  and 
my  sympathy  for  her  into  a  new  direction. 

"  While  we  were  at  Polesdean,"  she  said,  "  you  had  a  letter,  Ma- 
rian— " 

Her  altered  tone ;  the  abrupt  manner  in  which  she  looked  away 
from  me,  and  hid  her  face  on  my  shoulder;  the  hesitation  which  si- 
lenced her  before  she  had  completed  her  question,  all  told  me,  but 
too  plainly,  to  whom  the  half-expressed  inquiry  pointed. 

"  I  thought,  Laura,  that  you  and  I  were  never  to  refer  to  him 
again,"  I  said,  gently. 

"  You  had  a  letter  from  him  ?"  she  persisted. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  must  know  it." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  write  to  him  again  ?" 

I  hesitated.  I  had  been  afraid  to  tell  her  of  his  absence  from  En- 
gland, or  of  the  manner  in  which  my  exertions  to  serve  his  new 
hopes  and  projects  had  connected  me  with  his  departure.  What 
answer  could  I  make  ?  He  was  gone  where  no  letters  could  reach 
him  for  months,  perhaps  for  years,  to  come. 

"  Suppose  I  do  mean  to  WTite  to  him  again,"  I  said,  at  last. 
"What  then,  Laura?" 

Her  cheek  grew  burning  hot  against  my  neck,  and  her  arms 
trembled  and  tightened  round  me. 

"  Don't  tell  him  about  the  twenty-second,-''  she  whispered.  "  Prom- 
ise, Marian — pray  promise  you  will  not  even  mention  my  name  to 
him  when  you  write  next." 

I  gave  the  promise.  Xo  words  can  say  how  sorrowfully  I  gave  it. 
She  instantly  took  her  arm  from  my  waist,  walked  away  to  the  win- 
dow, and  stood  looking  out,  with  her  back  to  me.  After  a  moment 
she  si^oke  once  more,  but  without  turning  round,  without  allowing 
me  to  catch  the  smallest  glimpse  of  her  face. 

"  Are  you  going  to  my  uncle's  room  ?"  she  asked.  "  Will  you  say 
that  I  consent  to  whatever  arrangement  he  may  think  best  ?  Never 
mind  leaving  me,  Marian.     I  shall  be  better  alone  for  a  little  while." 

I  went  out.  If,  as  soon  as  I  got  into  the  passage,  I  could  have 
transported  Mr.  Fairlie  and  Sir  Percival  Glyde  to  the  uttermost  ends 
of  the  earth  by  lifting  one  of  my  lingers,  that  finger  would  have  been 
raised  without  an  instant's  hesitation.  For  once  my  unhappy  tem- 
l^er  now  stood  my  friend.  I  should  have  broken  down  altogether 
and  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  crying,  if  my  tears  had  not  been  all 
burned  up  in  the  heat  of  my  anger.  As  it  was,  I  dashed  into  Mr. 
Fairlie's  room— called  to  him  as  harshly  as  possible, ''  Laura  consents 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  163 

to  the  twenty-second  " — and  dashed  out  again  without  waiting  for 
a  word  of  answer.  I  banged  the  door  after  me,  and  I  hope  I  shat- 
tered Mr.  Fairlie's  nervous  system  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

2StJi. — This  morning  I  read  poor  Hartright's  farewell  letter  over 
again  ;  a  doubt  having  crossed  my  mind  since  yesterday,  whether  I 
am  acting  wisely  in  concealing  the  fact  of  his  departure  from  Laura. 

On  reflection,  I  still  think  I  am  right.  The  allusions  in  his  letter 
to  the  preparations  made  for  the  expedition  to  Central  America,  all 
show  that  the  leaders  of  it  know  it  to  be  dangerous.  If  the  discov- 
ery of  this  makes  7ne  uneasy,  what  would  it  make  he?'  1  It  is  bad 
enough  to  feel  that  his  departure  has  deprived  us  of  the  friend  of  all 
others  to  whose  devotion  we  could  trust  in  the  hour  of  need,  if  ever 
that  hour  comes  and  finds  us  helpless.  But  it  is  far  worse  to  know 
that  he  has  gone  from  us  to  face  the  perils  of  a  bad  climate,  a  w^ild 
country,  and  a  disturbed  population.  Surely  it  would  be  a  cruel  can- 
dor to  tell  Laura  this,  without  a  pressing  and  a  positive  necessity  for  it? 

I  almost  doubt  whether  I  ought  not  to  go  a  step  further,  and  bum 
the  letter  at  once,  for  fear  of  its  one  day  falling  into  wrong  hands. 
It  not  only  refers  to  Laura  in  terms  v»'hich  ought  to  remain  a  secret 
forever  between  the  writer  and  me  ;  but  it  reiterates  his  suspicion — 
so  obstinate,  so  unaccountable,  and  so  alarming — that  he  has  been 
secretly  watched  since  he  left  Limmeridge.  He  declares  that  he 
saw  the  faces  of  the  two  strange  men,  who  followed  him  about  the 
streets  of  London,  watching  him  among  the  crowd  which  gathered 
at  Liverpool  to  see  the  expedition  embark ;  and  he  positively  asserts 
that  he  heard  the  name  of  Anne  Catherick  pronounced  behind  him, 
as  he  got  into  the  boat.  His  own  words  are, "  These  events  have  a 
meaning,  these  events  must  lead  to  a  result.  The  mysteiy  of  Anne 
Catherick  is  not  cleared  up  yet.  She  may  never  cross  my  path 
again  ;  but  if  ever  she  crosses  yours,  make  better  use  of  the  opportu- 
nity. Miss  Halcombe,  than  I  made  of  it.  I  sjjeak  on  strong  convic- 
tion ;  I  entreat  you  to  remember  what  I  say."'  These  are  his  own 
expressions.  There  is  no  danger  of  my  forgetting  them — my  mem- 
ory is  only  too  ready  to  dwell  on  any  words  of  Hartright's  that  refer 
to  Anne  Catherick.  But  there  is  clanger  in  my  keeping  the  letter. 
The  merest  accident  might  place  it  at  the  mercy  of  strangers.  I 
may  fall  ill ;  I  may  die.  Better  to  bum  it  at  once,  and  have  one 
anxiety  the  less. 

It  is  burned !  The  ashes  of  his  farewell  letter — the  last  he  may 
ever  write  to  me — lie  in  a  few  black  fragments  on  the  hearth.  Is 
this  the  sad  end  to  all  that  sad  story  ?  Oh,  not  the  end — surely, 
surely  not  the  end  already  ! 

29^^. — The  preparations  for  the  marriage  have  begun.     The  dress- 


164  THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE. 

maker  lias  conic  to  receive  her  orders.  Laura  is  perfectly  impassive, 
perfectly  careless  about  the  question  of  all  others  in  which  a  wom- 
an's personal  interests  are  most  closely  bound  up.  She  has  left  it 
all  to  the  dress-maker  and  to  me.  If  jDoor  Hartright  had  been  the 
baronet,  and  the  husband  of  her  father's  choice,  how  differently  she 
would  liave  behaved  !  How  anxious  and  capricious  she  would  have 
been,  and  what  a  hard  task  the  best  of  dress-makers  would  have 
found  it  to  please  her  ! 

iiOth. — We  hear  every  day  from  Sir  Percival.  The  last  news  is, 
that  the  alterations  in  his  house  will  occupy  from  four  to  six  months, 
before  they  can  be  properly  completed.  If  painters,  paper-hangers, 
and  upholsterers  could  make  happiness  as  well  as  splendor,  I  should 
be  interested  about  their  proceedings  in  Laura'j  future  home.  As  it 
is,  the  only  part  of  Sir  PercivaVs  last  letter  which  does  not  leave  me 
as  it  found  me,  perfectly  indifferent  to  all  his  plans  and  projects,  is 
tlie  jDart  which  refers  to  the  wedding-tour.  He  proposes,  as  Laura 
is  delicate,  and  as  the  winter  threatens  to  be  unusually  severe,  to  take 
her  to  Rome,  and  to  remain  in  Italy  until  the  early  part  of  next  sum- 
mer. If  this  plan  should  not  be  approved,  he  is  equally  ready,  al- 
though he  has  no  establishment  of  his  own  in  town,  to  spend  the 
season  in  London,  in  the  most  suitable  furnished  house  that  can  be 
obtained  for  the  purpose. 

Putting  myself  and  my  own  feelings  entirely  out  of  the  question 
(which  it  is  my  duty  to  do,  and  which  I  have  done),  I,  for  one,  have 
no  doubt  of  the  propriety  of  adopting  the  first  of  these  jDroposals. 
In  either  case,  a  separation  between  Laura  and  me  is  inevitable.  It 
will  be  a  longer  separation,  in  the  event  of  their  going  abroad,  than 
it  would  be  in  the  event  of  their  remaining  in  London — but  we  must 
set  against  this  disadvantage  the  benefit  to  Laura  on  the  other  side, 
of  passing  the  winter  in  a  mild  climate;  and,  more  than  that,  the 
immense  assistance  in  raising  her  spirits,  and  reconciling  her  to  her 
new  existence,  which  the  mere  wonder  and  excitement  of  traveling  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  in  the  most  interesting  countiy  in  the  world 
must  surely  afford.  She  is  not  of  a  disposition  to  find  resources  in 
the  conventional  gayeties  and  excitements  of  London.  They  would 
only  make  the  first  oppression  of  this  lamentable  marriage  fall  the 
heavier  on  her.  I  dread  the  beginning  of  her  new  life  more  than 
words  can  tell ;  but  I  see  some  hope  for  her  if  she  travels — none  if 
she  remains  at  home. 

It  is  strange  to  look  back  at  this  latest  entry  in  my  journal,  and  to 
find  that  I  am  writing  of  the  marriage  and  the  parting  with  Laura,  as 
people  write  of  a  settled  thing.  It  seems  so  cold  and  so  unfeeling  to 
be  looking  at  the  future  already  in  this  cruelly  composed  way.  But 
what  other  way  is  possible,  now  that  the  time  is  drawing  so  near  ? 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  165 

Before  another  montli  is  over  our  heads,  she  will  be  his  Laura  instead 
of  mine !  His  Laura  I  I  am  as  little  able  to  realize  the  idea  which 
those  two  words  convey — my  mind  feels  almost  as  dulled  and  stun- 
ned by  it — as  if  writing  of  her  marriage  were  like  writing  of  her 
death. 

December  1st. — A  sad,  sad  day ;  a  day  that  I  have  no  heart  to  de- 
scribe at  any  length.  After  weakly  putting  it  off,  last  night,  I  was 
obliged  to  speak  to  her  this  morning  of  Sir  Percival's  proposal  about 
the  wedding-tour. 

In  the  full  conviction  that  I  should  be  with  her  wherever  she  went, 
the  poor  child — for  a  child  she  is  still  in  many  things — was  almost 
happy  at  the  prospect  of  seeing  the  wonders  of  Florence  and  Rome 
and  Xaples.  It  nearly  broke  my  heart  to  dispel  her  delusion,  and  to 
bring  her  face  to  face  with  the  hard  truth.  I  was  obliged  to  tell  her 
that  no  man  tolerates  a  rival — not  even  a  woman  rival — in  his  wife's 
affections,  when  he  first  marries,  whatever  he  may  do  afterward.  I 
was  obliged  to  warn  her,  that  my  chance  of  living  with  her  perma- 
nently under  her  own  roof  depended  entirely  on  my  not  arousing  Sir 
Percival's  jealousy  and  distrust  by  standing  between  them  at  the  be- 
ginning of  their  marriage,  in  the  position  of  the  chosen  depositoiy  of 
liis  wife's  closest  secrets.  Drop  by  drop,  I  poured  the  profaning  bit- 
terness of  this  world's  wisdom  into  that  pure  heart  and  that  innocent 
mind,  while  every  higher  and  better  feeling  within  me  recoiled  from 
my  miserable  task.  It  is  over  now.  She  has  learned  her  hard,  her 
inevitable  lesson.  The  simple  illusions  of  her  girlhood  are  gone ; 
and  my  hand  has  stripped  them  off.  Better  mine  than  his — that  is 
all  my  consolation — better  mine  than  his. 

So  the  first  proposal  is  the  j^roposal  accepted.  They  are  to  go  to 
Italy ;  and  I  am  to  arrange,  with  Sir  Percival's  permission,  for  meet- 
ing them  and  staying  with  them,  when  they  return  to  England.  In 
other  words,  I  am  to  ask  a  j^ersonal  favor,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
and  to  ask  it  of  the  man  of  all  others  to  whom  I  least  desire  to  owe 
a  serious  obligation  of  any  kind.  Well !  I  think  I  could  do  even 
more  than  that,  for  Laura's  sake. 

2d. — On  looking  back,  I  find  myself  always  refening  to  Sir  Perci- 
val  in  disparaging  terms.  In  the  turn  affairs  have  now  taken,  I  must 
and  will  root  out  my  prejudice  against  him.  I  can  not  think  how  it 
first  got  into  my  mind.     It  certainly  never  existed  in  former  times. 

Is  it  Laura's  reluctance  to  become  his  wife  that  has  set  me  against 
him  ?  Have  Hartright's  perfectly  intelligible  prejudices  infected  me 
w^ithout  my  suspecting  their  influence  ?  Does  that  letter  of  Anne 
Catherick's  still  leave  a  lurking  distrust  in  my  mind,  in  spite  of  Sir 
Percival's  explanation,  and  of  the  proof  in  my  possession  of  the  truth 


IGO  THE    AVOMAN    IN    WIIITK. 

of  it  ?  I  can  not  account  for  tlic  state  of  my  own  feelings :  the  one 
tiling  I  am  certain  of  is  that  it  is  my  duty — doubly  my  duty,  now — 
not  to  wrong  Sir  Percival  by  unjustly  distrusting  him.  If  it  has  got 
to  be  a  habit  with  me  always  to  write  of  him  in  the  same  unfavor- 
able manner,  I  must  and  M'ill  break  myself  of  this  unworthy  tenden- 
cy, even  though  the  effort  should  force  me  to  close  the  pages  of  my 
journal  till  the  marriage  is  over !  I  am  seriously  dissatisfied  with 
myself— I  will  write  no  more  to-day. 


December  IGth. — A  whole  fortnight  has  passed;  and  I  have  not 
once  opened  these  images.  I  have  been  long  enough  away  from  my 
journal,  to  come  back  to  it  with  a  healthier  and  better  mind,  I  hope, 
so  far  as  Sir  Percival  is  concerned. 

There  is  not  much  to  record  of  the  past  two  weeks.  The  dresses 
are  almost  all  finished ;  and  the  new  traveling-trunks  have  been  sent 
here  from  London.  Poor  dear  Laura  hardly  leaves  me  for  a  moment 
all  day ;  and  last  night,  when  neither  of  us  could  sleep,  she  came  and 
crept  into  my  bed  to  talk  to  me  there.  "  I  shall  lose  you  so  soon,  Ma- 
rian," she  said ;  "  I  must  make  the  most  of  you  while  I  can." 

They  are  to  be  married  at  Limmeridge  Church ;  and,  thank  Heav- 
en, not  one  of  the  neighbors  is  to  be  invited  to  the  ceremony.  The 
only  visitor  will  be  our  old  friend,  Mr.  Arnold,  who  is  to  come  from 
Polcsdean,  to  give  Laura  away;  her  uncle  being  far  too  delicate  to 
trust  himself  outside  the  door  in  such  inclement  weather  as  we  now 
have.  If  I  were  not  detcmiined,  from  this  day  forth,  to  see  nothing 
but  the  bright  side  of  our  prospects,  the  melancholy  absence  of  any 
male  relative  of  Laura's,  at  the  most  important  moment  of  her  life, 
would  make  me  very  gloomy  and  very  distrustful  of  the  future. 
But  I  have  done  with  gloom  and  distnist — that  is  to  say,  I  have 
done  with  writing  about  either  the  one  or  the  other  in  this  journal. 

Sir  Percival  is  to  arrive  to-morrow.  He  ofiered,  in  case  we  wished 
to  treat  him  on  terms  of  rigid  etiquette,  to  write  and  ask  our  clergy- 
man to  grant  him  the  hospitality  of  the  rectory  during  the  short  pe- 
riod of  his  sojourn  at  Limmeridge  before  the  marriage.  Under  the 
circumstances,  neither  Mr.  Fairlie  nor  I  thought  it  at  all  necessary  for 
us  to  trouble  ourselves  about  attending  to  trifling  forms  and  ceremo- 
nies. In  our  wild  moor-land  country,  and  in  this  great  lonely  house, 
we  may  well  claim  to  be  beyond  the  reach  of  the  trivial  convention- 
alities which  hamper  people  in  other  places.  I  wrote  to  Sir  Perci- 
val to  thank  him  for  his  polite  ofter,  and  to  beg  that  he  would  occu- 
py his  old  rooms,  just  as  usual,  at  Limmeridge  House. 

17th. — He  arrived  to-day,  looking,  as  I  thought,  a  little  worn  and 
anxious,  but  still  talking  and  laughing  like  a  man  in  the  best  i>ossi- 


THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE.  167 

ble  spirits.  lie  brouglit  with  liim  some  really  beautiful  presents  in 
jewelry,  which  Laura  received  with  her  best  grace,  and,  outwardly  at 
least,  with  perfect  self-possession.  The  only  sign  I  can  detect  of  the 
struggle  it  must  cost  her  to  preserve  ai^pearances  at  this  trying  time, 
exjDresses  itself  in  a  sudden  unwillingness  on  her  part  ever  to  be  left 
alone.  Instead  of  retreating  to  her  own  room,  as  usual,  she  seems  to 
dread  going  there.  When  I  went  up  stairs  to-day,  after  lunch,  to  put 
on  my  bonnet  for  a  walk,  she  volunteered  to  join  me ;  and  again,  be- 
fore dinner,  she  threw  the  door  open  between  our  two  rooms,  so  that 
we  might  talk  to  each  other  while  we  were  dressing.  "  Keep  me  al- 
ways doing  something,"  she  said ;  ''  keep  me  always  in  company  with 
somebody.  Don't  let  me  think — that  is  all  I  ask  now,  Marian — don't 
let  me  think.'' 

This  sad  change  in  her  only  increases  her  attractions  for  SirPerci- 
val.  He  interprets  it,  I  can  see,  to  his  own  advantage.  There  is  a  fe- 
verish flush  in  her  cheeks,  a  feverish  brightness  in  her  eyes,  which  he 
welcomes  as  the  return  of  her  beauty  and  the  recovery  of  her  spirits. 
She  talked  to-day  at  dinner  with  a  gayety  and  carelessness  so  fiilse, 
so  shockingly  out  of  her  character,  that  I  secretly  longed  to  silence 
her  and  take  her  away.  Sir  Percival's  delight  and  surprise  apj^ear- 
ed  to  be  beyond  all  expression.  The  anxiety  which  I  had  noticed 
on  his  tace  w^hen  he  arrived,  totally  disappeared  from  it ;  and  he 
looked,  even  to  my  eyes,  a  good  ten  years  younger  than  he  really  is. 

There  can  be  no  doubt — though  some  strange  perversity  prevents 
me  from  seeing  it  myself— there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Laura's  future 
husband  is  a  veiy  handsome  man.  Regular  features  form  a  person- 
al advantage  to  begin  with — and  he  has  them.  Bright  brown  eyes, 
cither  in  man  or  woman,  are  a  great  attraction — and  he  has  them. 
Even  baldness,  when  it  is  only  baldness  over  the  forehead  (as  in  his 
case),  is  rather  becoming  than  not,  in  a  man,  for  it  heightens  the  head 
and  adds  to  the  intelligence  of  the  face.  Grace  and  ease  of  move- 
ment ;  untiring  animation  of  manner ;  ready,  pliant  conversational 
powers — all  these  are  unquestionable  merits,  and  all  these  he  cer- 
tainly possesses.  Surely,  Mr.  Gilmore,  ignorant  as  he  is  of  Laura's 
secret,  was  not  to  blame  for  feeling  surprised  that  she  should  repent 
of  her  marriage  engagement  ?  Any  one  else  in  his  j^lace  would  have 
shared  our  good  old  friend's  opinion.  If  I  were  asked  at  this  mo- 
ment to  say  jDlainly  what  defects  I  have  discovered  in  Sir  Percival, 
I  could  only  point  out  two.  One,  his  incessant  restlessness  and  ex- 
citability— which  may  be  caused,  naturally  enough,  by  unusual  ener- 
gy of  character.  The  other,  his  short,  shaq),  ill-tempered  manner  of 
speaking  to  the  servants — which  may  be  onh^  a  bad  habit  after  all. 
No :  I  can  not  dispute  it,  and  I  will  not  disf)ute  it — Sir  Percival  is  a 
very  handsome  and  a  very  agreeable  man.  There  I  I  have  written 
it  down  at  last,  and  I  am  glad  it's  over. 


168  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

ISth. — Feeling  Mciiry  and  depressed  this  moraing,  I  left  Laura 
with  Mrs,  Vesey,  and  ^vent  out  alone  for  one  of  my  brisk  midday 
M'alks,  which  I  have  discontinued  too  much  of  late.  I  took  the  dry 
airy  road  over  the  moor  that  leads  to  Todd's  Corner.  After  having 
been  out  half  an  hour,  I  was  excessively  surprised  to  sec  Sir  Percival 
approaching  me  from  the  direction  of  the  farm.  He  was  walking 
rapidly,  swinging  his  stick ;  his  head  erect  as  usual,  and  his  shoot- 
ing-jacket flying  open  in  the  wind.  When  we  met,  he  did  not  wait 
for  me  to  ask  any  questions — he  told  me  at  once  that  he  had  ])een 
to  the  farm  to  inquire  if  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Todd  had  received  any  tidings, 
since  his  last  visit  to  Limmeridge,  of  Anne  Catherick. 

"  You  found,  of  course,  that  they  had  heard  nothing  ?''  I  said. 

"Nothing  whatever,"  he  replied.  "  I  begin  to  be  seriously  afraid 
that  we  have  lost  her.  Do  you  happen  to  know,"  he  continued, 
looking  me  in  the  face  very  attentively,  "  if  the  artist — ]Mr.  Hartright 
— is  in  a  position  to  give  us  any  further  information  ?" 

"  He  has  neither  heard  of  her,  nor  seen  her,  since  he  left  Cumber- 
land," I  answered. 

"  Very  sad,"  said  Sir  Percival,  speaking  like  a  man  Vv'ho  was  dis- 
appointed, and  yet,  oddly  enough,  looking,  at  the  same  time,  like  a 
man  who  was  relieved.  "  It  is  impossible  to  say  what  misfortunes 
may  not  have  happened  to  the  miserable  creature.  I  am  inexpressi- 
bly annoyed  at  the  failure  of  all  my  eflbrts  to  restore  her  to  the  care 
and  protection  which  she  so  urgently  needs." 

This  time  he  really  looked  annoyed.  I  said  a  few  sympathizing 
words ;  and  we  then  talked  of  other  subjects,  on  our  way  back  to  the 
house.  Surely  my  chance  meeting  with  him  on  the  moor  has  dis- 
closed another  favorable  trait  in  his  character  ?  Surely  it  was  sin- 
gularly considerate  and  unselfish  of  him  to  think  of  Anne  Catherick 
on  the  eve  of  his  marriage,  and  to  go  all  the  way  to  Todd's  Comer 
to  make  inquiries  about  her,  when  he  might  have  j^assed  the  time  so 
much  more  agreeably  in  Laura's  society  ?  Considering  that  he  can 
only  have  acted  from  motives  of  pure  charity,  his  conduct,  under  the 
circumstances,  shows  unusual  good  feeling,  and  deserves  extraordinary 
praise.   Well !  I  give  him  extraordinary  praise — and  there's  an  end  of  it. 

lOtJi. — More  discoveries  in  the  inexhaustible  mine  of  Sir  Percival's 
rirtues. 

To-day  I  approached  the  subject  of  my  proposed  sojourn  under 
his  wife's  roof,  when  he  brings  her  back  to  England.  I  had  hardly 
dropped  my  first  hint  in  this  direction  before  he  caught  me  warmly 
by  the  hand,  and  said  I  had  made  the  very  offer  to  him  which  he 
had  been,  on  his  side,  most  anxious  to  make  to  me.  I  was  the  com- 
panion of  all  others  whom  he  most  sincerely  longed  to  secure  for  his 
jed  me  to  believe  that  I  had  conferred  a  lasting 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  169 

favor  on  liiin  by  making  the  proposal  to  live  with  Laura  after  her 
marriage,  exactly  as  I  had  always  lived  with  her  before  it. 

When  I  had  thanked  him,  in  her  name  and  mine,  for  his  consider- 
ate kindnes,s  to  both  of  us,  we  passed  next  to  the  subject  of  his  wed- 
ding-tour, and  began  to  talk  of  the  English  society  in  Rome  to  which 
Laura  was  to  be  introduced.  He  ran  over  the  names  of  several 
friends  whom  he  expected  to  meet  abroad  this  winter.  They  were 
all  English,  as  well  as  I  can  remember,  with  one  exception.  The  one 
exception  was  Count  Fosco. 

The  mention  of  the  Count's  name,  and  the  discovery  that  he  and 
his  wife  are  likely  to  meet  the  bride  and  bridegroom  on  the  Conti- 
nent, puts  Laura's  marriage,  for  the  first  time,  in  a  distinctly  favora- 
ble light.  It  is  likely  to  be  the  means  of  healing  a  ftimily  feud. 
Hitherto  Madame  Fosco  has  chosen  to  forget  her  obligations  as  Lau- 
ra's aunt,  out  of  sheer  spite  against  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie  for  his  ■con- 
duct in  the  affair  of  the  legacy.  Now,  however,  she  can  persist  in 
this  course  of  conduct  no  longer.  Sir  Percival  and  Count  Fosco  are 
old  and  fast  fiieuds,  and  their  wives  will  have  no  choice  but  to  meet 
on  civil  terms.  Madame  Fosco,  in  Ler  maiden  days,  was  one  of  the 
most  impertinent  women  I  ever  met  with — capricious,  exacting,  and 
vain  to  the  last  degree  of  absurdity.  If  her  husband  has  succeeded 
in  bringing  her  to  her  senses,  he  deserves  the  gratitude  of  every 
member  of  the  family — and  he  may  have  mine  to  begin  with. 

I  am  becoming  anxious  to  know  the  Count.  He  is  the  most  in- 
timate friend  of  Laura's  husband;  and,  in  that  capacity,  he  excites 
my  strongest  interest.  Neither  Laura  nor  I  have  ever  seen  him. 
All  I  know  of  him  is  that  his  accidental  presence,  years  ago,  on  the 
steps  of  the  Trinita  del  Monte  at  Rome,  assisted  Sk  Percival's  escape 
from  robbery  and  assassination,  at  the  critical  moment  when  he  was 
wounded  in  the  hand,  and  might,  the  next  instant,  have  been  wound- 
ed in  the  heart.  I  remember  also  that,  at  the  time  of  the  late  Ililr. 
Fairlie's  absurd  objections  to  his  sister's  marriage,  the  Count  wrote 
him  a  veiy  temperate  and  sensible  letter  on  the  subject,  which,  I  am 
ashamed  to  say,  remained  unanswered.  This  is  all  I  know  of  Sir 
Percival's  friend.  I  wonder  if  he  will  ever  come  to  England  ?  I 
wonder  if  I  shall  like  him  ? 

My  pen  is  running  away  into  mere  speculation.  Let  me  return  to 
sober  matter  of  fact.  It  is  certain  that  Sir  Percival's  recejDtion  of 
my  venturesome  proposal  to  live  with  his  wife  was  more  than  kind — 
it  was  almost  affectionate.  I  am  sure  Laura's  husband  will  have  no 
reason  to  complain  of  me,  if  I  can  only  go  on  as  I  have  begun.  I 
have  already  declared  him  to  be  handsome,  agreeable,  full  of  good 
feeling  toward  the  unfortunate,  and  full  of  affectionate  kindness  to- 
ward me.  Really,  I  hardly  know  myself  again,  in  my  new  charac- 
ter of  Sir  Percival's  warmest  friend. 


170  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHI'IE. 

20^//. — I  Imtc  Sir  Pcrcival  !  I  flatly  deny  his  good  looks.  I  con- 
sider him  to  1)0  eminently  ill-tempered  and  disagreeable,  and  totally 
"wanting  in  kindness  and  good  feeling.  Last  night  the  cards  for  the 
married  coui)le  were  sent  home.  Laura  opened  the  packet,  and  saw 
her  future  name  in  print,  for  the  first  time.  Sir  Percival  looked  over 
her  shoulder  fitmiliarly  at  the  new  card  which  had  already  trans- 
formed Miss  Fairlie  into  Lady  Glyde — smiled  with  the  most  odious 
self-complacency  —  and  whispered  something  in  lier  ear.  I  don't 
know  what  it  was — Laura  has  refused  to  tell  me — ^but  I  saw  her  face 
turn  to  such  a  deadly  whiteness  that  I  thought  she  would  have 
fainted.  He  took  no  notice  of  the  change  :  he  seemed  to  be  barba- 
rously unconscious  that  he  had  said  any  thing  to  pain  her.  All  my 
old  feelings  of  hostility  toward  him  revived  on  the  instant ;  and  ail 
the  hours  that  have  passed  since  have  done  nothing  to  dissipate; 
them.  I  am  more  unreasonable  and  more  unjust  than  ever.  In 
three  words — how  glibly  my  pen  writes  them ! — in  three  words,  I 
hate  him. 

21st. — Have  the  anxieties  of  this  anxious  time  shaken  me  a  little, 
at  last  ?  I  have  been  writing,  for  the  last  few  days,  in  a  tone  of  lev- 
ity which,  Heaven  knows,  is  far  enough  from  my  heart,  and  which  it 
has  rather  shocked  me  to  discover  on  looking  back  at  the  entries  in 
my  journal. 

Perhaps  I  may  have  caught  the  feverish  excitement  of  Laura's 
spirits  for  the  last  week.  If  so,  the  fit  has  already  passed  away  from 
me,  and  has  left  me  in  a  veiy  strange  state  of  mind.  A  persistent 
idea  has  been  forcing  itself  on  my  attention,  ever  since  last  night,  that 
something  vrill  yet  happen  to  prevent  the  marriage.  What  has  pro- 
duced this  singular  fancy  ?  Is  it  the  indirect  result  of  my  apprehen- 
sions for  Laura's  future  ?  Or  has  it  been  unconsciously  suggested  to 
me  by  the  increasing  restlessness  and  irritability  which  I  have  cer- 
tainly observed  in  Sir  Percival's  manner  as  the  wedding-day  draws 
nearer  and  nearer  ?  Impossible  to  say.  I  know  that  I  have  the  idea 
— surely  the  wildest  idea,  under  the  circumstances,  that  ever  entered 
a  woman's  head  ? — but,  try  as  I  may,  I  can  not  trace  it  back  to  its 
source. 

This  last  day  has  been  all  confusion  and  wretchedness.  How  can 
I  write  about  it  ? — and  yet  I  must  write.  Any  thing  is  better  than 
brooding  over  my  own  gloomy  thoughts. 

Kind  Mrs.  Vesey,  whom  we  have  all  too  much  overlooked  and  for- 
gotten of  late,  innocently  caused  us  a  sad  morning,  to  begin  with. 
She  lias  been,  for  montlis  past,  secretly  making  a  warm  Shetland 
shawl  for  her  dear  pupil — a  most  beautiful  and  surprising  piece  of 
work  to  be  done  by  a  woman  at  her  age  and  with  her  habits.  The 
gill  was  presented  this  morning;  and  poor  warm-hearted  Laura  com- 
pletely Iroke  down  when  the  shawl  was  put  proudly  on  her  shoul- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  iVl 

ders  by  the  loving  old  friend  and  guardian  of  her  motherless  child- 
hood. I  was  hardly  allowed  time  to  quiet  them  both,  or  even  to  diy 
my  own  eyes,  when  I  was  sent  for  by  Mr.  Fairlie,  to  be  favored  with 
a  long  recital  of  his  arrangements  for  the  preservation  of  his  own 
tranquillity  on  the  wedding-day. 

"Dear  Laura"  was  to  receive  his  present — a  shabby  ring,  with  her 
affectionate  uncle's  hair  for  an  ornament,  instead  of  a  precious  stone, 
and  with  a  heartless  French  inscription  inside,  about  congenial  sen- 
timents and  eternal  friendship — "dear  Laura"  was  to  receive  this 
tender  tribute  from  my  hands  immediately,  so  that  she  might  have 
plenty  of  time  to  recover  from  the  agitation  produced  by  the  gift, 
before  she  appeared  in  Mr.  Fairlie's  presence.  "  Dear  Laura"  was  to 
pay  him  a  little  visit  that  evening,  and  to  be  kind  enough  not  to 
make  a  scene.  "  Dear  Laura"  Avas  to  pay  him  another  little  visit  in 
her  wedding-dress,  the  next  morning,  and  to  be  kind  enough,  again, 
not  to  make  a  scene.  "Dear  Laura"  was  to  look  in  once  more, for 
the  third  time,  before  going  away,  but  without  harrowing  his  feelings 
by  saying  ichen  she  was  going  away,  and  without  tears — "  in  the  name 
of  pity,  in  the  name  of  every  thing,  dear  Marian,  that  is  most  affec- 
tionate and  most  domestic  and  most  delightfully  and  charmingly  &ii\^- 
comi'>ose(\,  icithout  tmrsP''  I  was  so  exasperated  by  this  miserable, 
selfish  trifling,  at  such  a  time,  that  I  should  certainly  have  shocked 
Mr.  Fairlie  by  some  of  the  hardest  and  rudest  truths  he  has  ever 
heard  in  his  life,  if  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Arnold  from  Polesdean  had  not 
called  me  away  to  new  duties  down  stairs. 

The  rest  of  the  day  is  indescribable.  I  believe  no  one  in  the  house 
really  knew  how  it  passed.  The  confusion  of  small  events,  all  hud- 
dled together  one  on  the  other,  bewildered  every  body.  There  were 
dresses  sent  home  that  had  been  forgotten ;  there  were  trunks  to  be 
packed  and  unpacked,  and  packed  again  ;  there  were  presents  from 
friends  far  and  near,  friends  high  and  low.  We  were  all  needlessly 
hurried,  all  nervously  expectant  of  the  morrow.  Sir  Percival,  especial- 
ly, was  too  restless,  now,  to  remain  five  minutes  together  in  the  same 
place.  That  short,  sharp  cough  of  his  troubled  him  more  than  ever. 
He  was  in  and  out  of  doors  all  day  long ;  and  he  seemed  to  grow  so 
inquisitive,  on  a  sudden,  that  he  questioned  the  very  strangers  who 
came  on  small  errands  to  the  house.  Add  to  all  this  the  one  perpet- 
ual thought,  in  Laura's  mind  and  mine,  that  we  were  to  part  the  next 
day,  and  the  haunting  dread,  unexpressed  by  either  of  us,  and  yet 
ever  present  to  both,  that  this  deploral^le  marriage  might  jH-ove  to  be 
the  one  fatal  error  of  her  life  and  the  one  hopeless  sorrow  of  mine. 
For  the  first  time  in  all  the  years  of  our  close  and  happy  intercourse 
we  almost  avoided  looking  each  other  in  the  face  ;  and  we  refrained, 
by  common  consent,  from  speaking  together  in  private  through  the 
whole  evening.  I  can  dwell  on  it  no  longer.  Whatever  future  sor- 
rows may  be  in  store  foi  me,  I  shall  always  look  back  on  this  twenty- 


172  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

first  of  December  as  the  most  comfortless  and  most  miserable  day  of 
my  life. 

I  am  writing  these  lines  in  the  solitude  of  my  own  room,  long  after 
midnight ;  having  just  come  back  from  a  stolen  look  at  Laura  in  her 
pretty  little  white  bed — the  bed  she  has  occupied  since  the  days  oi 
lier  girlhood. 

There  she  lay,  unconscious  that  I  was  looking  at  her — quiet,  mo\ 
quiet  than  I  had  dared  to  hope,  but  not  sleeping.  The  glimmer  of 
the  night-light  showed  me  that  her  eyes  were  only  partially  closed ; 
the  traces  of  tears  glistened  between  her  eyelids.  My  little  keepsake 
—only  a  brooch — lay  on  the  talkie  at  her  bedside,  with  her  prayer- 
book,  and  the  miniature  portrait  of  her  father,  which  she  takes  with 
her  wherever  she  goes.  I  waited  a  moment,  looking  at  her  from  be- 
hind her  pillow,  as  she  lay  beneath  me,  with  one  arm  and  hand  rest- 
ing on  the  white  coverlet,  so  still,  so  quietly  breathing,  that  the  frill 
on  her  night  dress  never  moved — I  waited,  looking  at  her,  as  I  have 
seen  her  thousands  of  times,  as  I  shall  never  see  her  again — and  then 
stole  back  to  my  room.  My  own  love  I  with  all  your  wealth,  and  all 
your  beauty,  how^  friendless  you  are !  The  one  man  who  would  give 
his  heart's  life  to  serve  you  is  t\ir  away,  tossing,  this  stormy  night,  on 
the  awful  sea.  Who  else  is  left  to  you  ?  No  father,  no  brother — no 
living  creature  but  the  heljDless,  useless  woman  who  writes  these  sad 
lines,  and  watches  by  you  for  the  morning,  in  sorrow  that  she  can  not 
compose,  in  doubt  that  she  can  not  conquer.  Oh,  what  a  trust  is  to 
be  placed  in  that  man's  hands  to-morrow  !  If  ever  he  forgets  iti^  if 
ever  he  injures  a  hair  of  her  head  ! — 

The  Twenty-second  of  December.  Seven  o'clock. — A  wild,  unsettled 
morning.  She  has  just  risen — better  and  calmer,  now  that  the  time 
has  come,  than  she  was  yesterday. 


Ten  o'clock.  —  She  is  dressed.  We  have  kissed  each  other;  we 
liave  promised  each  other  not  to  lose  courage.  I  am  away  for  a  mo- 
ment in  my  own  room.  In  the  whirl  and  confusion  of  my  thoughts 
I  can  detect  that  strange  fancy  of  some  hinderance  happening  to  stop 
the  marriage,  still  hanging  about  my  mind.  Is  it  hanging  about  his 
mind  too?  I  see  him  from  the  window,  moving  hither  and  thither 
uneasily  among  the  carriages  at  the  door. — How  can  I  write  such 
fo!!y!  The  marriage  is  a  certainty.  In  less  than  half  an  hour  we 
start  for  the  church. 


Eleven  o'clock. — It  is  all  over.     They  are  married. 


Three  o  clock. — They  are  gone  !     I  am  blind  with  crj'ing — I  can 
•^'rite  no  more — 

***■++.♦  +  * 


THE    WOMAN   IX    WHITE.  173 


THE   SECOND   EPOCH. 


The  Story  continued  by  Marian  Halcombe. 

I. 

******** 

Blackwater  Park,  Hampshire. 

June  lUA,  1850. — Six  montlis  to  look  back  on — six  long,  lonely 
months,  since  Laura  and  I  last  saw  each  other ! 

How  many  days  have  I  still  to  wait  ?  Only  one  !  To-morrow,  the 
twelfth,  the  travelers  return  to  England.  I  can  hardly  realize  my 
own  happiness ;  I  can  hardly  believe  that  the  next  four-and-twen- 
ty  hours  will  complete  the  last  day  of  se^Daration  between  Laura 
and  me. 

She  and  her  husband  have  been  in  Italy  all  the  winter,  and  after- 
ward in  the  Tyrol.  They  come  back,  accompanied  by  Count  Fosco 
and  his  vvife,  who  propose  to  settle  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  London,  and  who  have  engaged  to  stay  at  Blackwater  Park  for 
the  summer  months,  before  deciding  on  a  place  of  residence.  So 
long  as  Laura  returns,  no  matter  who  returns  with  her.  Sir  Percival 
may  fill  the  house  from  floor  to  ceiling,  if  he  likes,  on  condition  that 
his  wife  and  I  inhabit  it  together. 

Meanwhile,  here  I  am,  established  at  Blackwater  Park,  "  the  an- 
cient and  interesting  seat"  (as  the  county  history  obligingly  in- 
forms me)  "  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  Bart." — and  the  future  abiding- 
place  (as  I  may  now  venture  to  add,  on  my  account)  of  plain  Marian 
Halcombe,  spinster,  now  settled  in  a  snug  little  sitting-room,  with  a 
cup  of  tea  by  her  side,  and  all  her  earthly  possessions  ranged  round 
her  in  three  boxes  and  a  bag. 

I  left  Limmeridge  yesterday,  having  received  Laura's  delightful 
letter  from  Paris  the  day  before.  I  had  been  previously  uncertain 
whether  I  was  to  meet  them  in  London  or  in  Hami3sliire ;  but  this 
last  letter  informed  me  that  Sir  Percival  proposed  to  land  at  South- 
ampton, and  to  travel  straight  on  to  his  country  house.  He  has  spent 
so  much  money  abroad  that  he  has  none  left  to  defray  the  expenses 
of  living  in  London,  for  the  remainder  of  the  season;  and  he  is  eco- 
nomically resolved  to  pass  the  summer  and  autumn  quietly  at  Black- 
water.     Laura  has  had  more  than  enougli  of  excitement  and  change 


174  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

of  scene,  and  is  pleased  at  the  prospect  of  country  tranquillity  and 
retirement  which  lier  husband's  prudence  provides  for  her.  As  for 
nie,  I  am  ready  to  be  happy  anywhere  in  her  society.  We  are  all, 
therefore,  well  contented  in  our  various  ways,  to  begin  with. 

Last  night  I  slept  in  London,  and  was  delayed  there  so  long,  to- 
day, by  various  calls  and  commissions,  that  I  did  not  reach  Black- 
water,  this  evening,  till  after  dusk. 

Judging  by  my  vague  impressions  of  the  place  thus  far,  it  is  the 
exact  opposite  of  Limmeridge. 

The  house  is  situated  on  a  dead  flat,  and  seems  to  be  shut  in— al- 
most suffocated,  to  my  north-country  notions — by  trees.  I  have  seen 
nobody  but  the  man-servant  who  opened  the  door  to  me,  and  the 
housekeeper,  a  very  civil  person,  who  showed  me  the  way  to  my 
own  room,  and  got  me  my  tea.  I  have  a  nice  little  boudoir  and 
bedroom,  at  the  end  of  a  long  passage  on  the  first-tloor.  The  serv- 
ants and  some  of  the  spare  rooms  are  on  the  second-floor ;  and  all 
the  living  rooms  are  on  the  ground-floor.  I  have  not  seen  one  of 
them  yet,  and  I  know  nothing  about  the  house,  except  that  one 
wing  of  it  is  said  to  be  five  hundred  years  old,  that  it  had  a  moat 
round  it  once,  and  that  it  gets  its  name  of  Blackwater  from  a  lake 
in  the  park. 

Eleven  o'clock  has  just  struck,  in  a  ghostly  and  solemn  manner, 
from  a  turret  over  the  centre  of  the  house,  which  I  saw  when  I  came 
in.  A  large  dog  has  been  woke,  apparently  by  the  sound  of  the  bell, 
and  is  howling  and  yawning  drearily,  somewhere  round  a  corner.  I 
liear  echoing  footsteps  in  the  passages  below,  and  the  ii'on  thumping 
of  bolts  and  bars  at  the  house  door.  The  servants  are  evidently  go- 
ing to  bed.     Shall  I  follow  their  example  ? 

No :  I  am  not  half  sleepy  enough.  Sleepy,  did  I  say  ?  I  feel  as  if 
I  should  never  close  my  eyes  again.  The  bare  anticipation  of  see- 
ing that  dear  face  and  hearing  that  well-known  voice  to-morrow, 
keeps  me  in  a  perpetual  fever  of  excitement.  If  I  only  had  the  priv- 
ileges of  a  man,  I  would  order  out  Sir  Percival's  best  horse  instantly, 
and  tear  away  on  a  night-gallop,  eastward,  to  meet  the  rising  sun — a 
long,  hard,  heavy,  ceaseless  gallop  of  hours  and  hours,  like  the  fa- 
mous highwayman's  ride  to  York.  Being,  however,  nothing  but  a 
woman,  condemned  to  patience,  j^ropriety,  and  petticoats,  for  life,  I 
must  respect  the  housekeeper's  oi)inions,  and  try  to  compose  myself 
in  some  feeble  and  feminine  way. 

Reading  is  out  of  the  question — I  can't  fix  my  attention  on  books. 
Let  me  try  if  I  can  write  myself  into  sleepiness  and  fatigue.  My 
journal  has  been  very  much  neglected  of  late.  What  can  I  recall — 
standing,  as  I  now  do,  on  the  threshold  of  a  new  life,  of  persons  and 
events,  of  chances  and  changes,  during  tlie  past  six  months — the 
long,  weary,  empty  interval  since  Laura's  wedding-day  ? 


THE    VrOMAX    IX    WHITE.  175 

Walter  Hartriglit  is  uj^permost  in  my  uiemon-,  and  lie  passes  first 
in  the  shadowy  procession  of  my  absent  friends.  I  received  a  few 
lines  from  him  after  the  landing  of  the  expedition  in  Honduras, 
written  more  cheerfblly  and  hopefully  than  he  has  written  yet.  A 
month  or  six  weeks  later,  I  saw  an  extract  from  an  American  news- 
paper, describing  the  departure  of  the  adventurers  on  their  inland 
journey.  They  were  last  seen  entering  a  wild  primeval  forest,  each 
man  with  his  rifle  on  his  shoulder  and  his  baggage  at  his  back. 
Since  that  time  civilization  has  lost  all  trace  of  them.  Not  a  line 
more  have  I  received  from  Walter,  not  a  fragment  of  news  from  the 
expedition  has  appeared  in  any  of  the  public  journals. 

The  same  dense,  disheartening  obscurity  hangs  over  the  fate  and 
fortunes  of  Anne  Catherick,  and  her  companion,  Mrs.  Clements. 
Nothing  whatever  has  been  heard  of  either  of  them.  Whether 
they  are  in  the  countiy  or  out  of  it,  whether  they  are  living  or 
dead,  no  one  knows.  Even  Sir  PercivaFs  solicitor  has  lost  all 
hope,  and  has  ordered  the  useless  search  after  the  fugitives  to  be 
finally  given  up. 

Our  good  old  friend  Mr.  Gilmore  has  met  with  a  sad  check  in  his 
active  professional  career.  Early  in  the  spring  we  were  alarmed  by 
hearing  that  he  had  been  found  insensible  at  his  desk,  and  that  the 
seizure  was  pronounced  to  be  an  apoplectic  fit.  He  had  l^een  long 
complaining  of  fullness  and  oppression  in  the  head,  and  his  doctor 
had  warned  him  of  the  consequences  that  would  follow  his  persist- 
ency in  continuing  to  work  early  and  late,  as  if  he  was  still  a  young 
man.  The  result  now  is  that  he  has  been  positively  ordered  to  keep 
out  of  his  ofiice  for  a  year  to  come  at  least,  and  to  seek  repose  of 
body  and  relief  of  mind  by  altogether  changing  his  usual  mode  of 
life.  The  business  is  left,  accordingly,  to  be  carried  on  by  his  part- 
ner, and  he  is  himself,  at  this  moment,  away  in  Germany,  visiting 
some  relations  who  are  settled  there  in  mercantile  pursuits.  Thus 
another  true  friend  and  trustworthy  adviser  is  lost  to  us — lost,  I  ear- 
nestly hope  and  trust,  for  a  time  only. 

Poor  Mrs.  Vesey  traveled  with  me  as  far  as  London.  It  was  im- 
possible to  abandon  her  to  solitude  at  Limmeridge,  after  Laura  and 
I  had  both  left  the  house,  and  we  have  arranged  that  she  is  to  live 
witli  an  unmarried  younger  sister  of  hers  who  keeps  a  school  at  Clap- 
ham.  She  is  to  come  here  this  autumn  to  visit  her  pupil — I  might 
almost  say  her  adopted  child.  I  saw  the  good  old  lady  safe  to  her 
destination,  and  left  her  in  the  care  of  her  relative,  quietly  happy  at 
the  prospect  of  seeing  Laura  again  in  a  few  months'  time. 

As  for  Mr.  Fairlie,  I  believe  I  am  guilty  of  no  injustice  if  I  describe 
him  as  being  unutterably  relieved  by  having  the  house  clear  of  us 
women.  The  idea  of  his  missing  his  niece  is  simply  j)reposterous — 
he  used  to  let  months  pass,  in  the  old  times,  without  attempting  to 


176  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

see  her — and,  in  my  case  and  Mrs.  Vescy's,  I  take  leave  to  consider 
his  telling  us  both  tliat  he  was  lialf  heart-broken  at  our  departure, 
to  be  equivalent  to  a  confession  that  he  was  secretly  rejoiced  to  get 
rid  of  us.  His  last  caprice  has  led  him  to  keep  two  photographers 
incessantly  employed  in  producing  sun-pictures  of  all  the  treasures 
and  curiosities  in  his  possession.  One  comi:>lcte  copy  of  the  collec- 
tion of  the  photographs  is  to  be  presented  to  the  Mechanics'  Institu- 
tion of  Carlisle,  mounted  on  the  finest  card-board,  with  os-tentatious 
red-letter  inscriptions  underneath.  "Madonna  and  Child,  by  Ra- 
pliael.  In  the  possession  of  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esquire.''  "Copper 
coin  of  the  period  of  Tiglath-pileser.  In  the  possession  of  Freder- 
ick Fairlie,  Esquire."  "  Unique  Rembrandt  etching.  Known  ali 
over  Europe  as  TJie  Smudge,  from  a  printer's  blot  in  the  corner, 
which  exists  in  no  other  cojjy.  Valued  at  three  hundred  guineas. 
In  the  possession  of  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esq."  Dozens  of  photo- 
graphs of  this  sort,  and  all  inscribed  in  this  manner,  were  completed 
before  I  left  Cumberland ;  and  hundreds  more  remain  to  be  done. 
With  this  new  interest  to  occupy  him,  Mr.  Fairlie  will  be  a  happy 
man  for  months  and  months  to  come;  and  the  two  unfortunate  pho- 
togi-aphers  will  share  the  social  martyrdom  which  he  has  hitherto 
inflicted  on  his  valet  alone. 

So  much  for  the  persons  and  events  which  hold  the  foremost 
place  in  my  memory.  What,  next,  of  the  one  person  who  holds  the 
foremost  i>lace  in  my  heart  ?  Laura  has  been  present  to  my  thoughts 
all  the  while  I  have  been  writing  these  lines.  What  can  I  recall  of 
her,  during  the  past  six  months,  before  I  close  my  journal  for  the 
night  ? 

I  have  only  her  letters  to  guide  me ;  and,  on  the  most  important 
of  all  the  questions  which  our  correspondence  can  discuss,  every  one 
of  those  letters  leaves  me  in  the  dark. 

Does  he  treat  her  kindly  ?  Is  she  happier  now  than  she  was  when 
I  parted  with  her  on  the  wedding-day.  All  my  letters  have  con- 
tained these  two  inquiries,  put  more  or  less  directly,  now  in  one 
form,  and  now  in  another  ;  and  all,  on  that  point  only,  have  remain- 
ed without  reply,  or  have  been  answered  as  if  my  questions  merely 
related  to  the  state  of  her  health.  She  informs  me,  over  and  over 
again,  that  she  is  perfectly  well;  that  traveling  agrees  with  her; 
that  she  is  getting  through  the  winter,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life, 
without  catching  cold — but  not  a  word  can  I  find  anywhere  which 
tells  me  plainly  that  she  is  reconciled  to  her  marriage,  and  that  she 
can  now  look  back  to  the  twenty-second  of  December  without  any 
bitter  feelings  of  repentance  and  regret.  The  name  of  licr  husband 
is  only  mentioned  in  her  letters  as  she  might  mention  the  name  of  a 
friend  who  was  traveling  with  them,  and  who  had  undertaken  to 
make  all  the  arrangements  for  the  journey.     "  Sir  Percival"  has  set- 


THE    WOM/jq-    IN    WHITE.  177 


tied  that  we  leave  on  such  a  day  ;  '•  Sir  Percival ''  has  decided  that 
we  travel  by  such  a  road.  Sometimes  she  writes  "  Percival  ■'  only, 
but  very  seldom — in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  she  gives  him  his  title. 

I  can  not  tind  that  his  habits  and  opinions  have  changed  and  col- 
ored hers  in  any  single  particular.  The  usual  moral  transformation 
which  is  insensibly  wrought  in  a  young,  fresh,  sensitive  woman  by 
her  marriage,  seems  never  to  have  taken  place  in  Laura.  She  writes 
of  her  own  thoughts  and  impressions,  amidst  all  the  wonders  she  has 
seen,  exactly  as  she  might  have  written  to  some  one  else  if  I  had 
been  traveling  with  her  instead  of  her  husband.  I  see  no  betrayal 
anywhere,  of  sympathy  of  any  kind  existing  between  them.  Even 
when  she  wanders  from  the  subject  of  her  travels,  and  occupies  her- 
self with  the  prospects  that  await  her  in  England,  her  speculations 
are  busied  with  her  future  as  my  sister,  and  persistently  neglect  to 
notice  her  future  as  Su-  Percivars  wife.  In  all  this  there  is  no  under- 
tone of  complaint,  to  warn  me  that  she  is  absolutely  unhappy  in  her 
married  life.  The  impression  I  have  derived  from  our  correspond- 
ence does  not,  thank  God,  lead  me  to  any  such  distressing  conclusion 
as  that.  I  only  see  a  sad  torpor,  an  unchangeable  indifference,  when 
I  turn  my  mind  from  her  in  the  old  character  of  a  sister,  and  look  at 
her,  through  the  medium  of  her  letters,  in  the  new  character  of  a 
wife.  In  other  words,  it  is  always  Laura  Fairlie  who  has  been  writ- 
ing to  me  for  the  last  six  months,  and  never  Lady  Glyde. 

The  strange  silence  which  she  maintains  on  the  subject  of  her  hus- 
band's character  and  conduct,  she  preserves  with  almost  equal  reso- 
lution in  the  few  references  which  her  later  letters  contain  to  the 
name  of  her  husband's  bosom  friend.  Count  Fosco. 

For  some  unexplained  reason,  the  Count  and  his  wife  appear  to 
have  changed  their  plans  abruptly,  at  the  end  of  last  autumn,  and  to 
have  gone  to  Vienna,  instead  of  going  to  Rome,  at  which  latter  place 
Sir  Percival  had  expected  to  find  them  when  he  left  England.  They 
only  quitted  Vienna  in  the  spring,  and  traveled  as  far  as  the  Tyrol 
to  meet  the  bride  and  bridegroom  on  their  homeward  journey. 
Laura  writes  readily  enough  about  the  meeting  with  Madame  Fosco, 
and  assures  me  that  she  has  found  her  aunt  so  much  changed  for 
the  better — so  much  quieter  and  so  much  more  sensible  as  a  wife 
than  she  was  as  a  single  woman — that  I  shall  hardly  know  her  again 
when  I  see  her  here.  But  on  the  subject  of  Count  Fosco  (who  inter- 
ests me  infinitely  more  than  his  wife),  Laura  is  provokingly  circum- 
spect and  silent.  She  only  says  that  he  puzzles  her,  and  that  she 
will  not  tell  me  what  her  impression  of  him  is  until  I  have  seen  him, 
and  formed  my  own  opinion  first. 

*  This,  to  my  mind,  looks  ill  for  the  Count.  Laura  has  preserved, 
far  more  perfectly  than  most  people  do  in  later  life,  the  child's  subtle 
faculty  of  knowing  a  fiiend  by  instinct ;  and  if  I  am  right  in  assum- 

8* 


178  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

int^  that  hor  first  impression  of  Count  Fosco  has  not  been  fiivorable, 
I,  for  one,  am  in  some  danger  of  doubting  and  distrusting  that  illus- 
trious foreigner  before  I  have  so  much  as  set  eyes  on  him.  But  pa- 
tience, patience  ;  this  uncertainty,  and  many  uncertainties  more,  can 
not  last  much  longer.  To-morrow  will  see  all  my  doubts  in  a  fair 
way  of  being  cleared  up,  sooner  or  later. 

Twelve  o'clock  has  struck ;  and  I  have  just  come  back  to  close 
these  pages,  after  looking  out  at  my  open  window. 

It  is  a  still,  sultry,  moonless  night.  The  stars  are  dull  and  few. 
The  trees  that  shut  out  the  view  on  all  sides  look  dimly  black  and 
solid  in  the  distance,  like  a  great  wall  of  rock.  I  hear  the  croaking 
of  frogs,  faint  and  far  off,  and  the  echoes  of  the  great  clock  hum  in 
the  airless  calm  long  after  the  strokes  have  ceased.  I  v,'onder  liow 
Black  water  Park  will  look  in  the  day-time  ?  I  don't  altogether  like 
it  by  night. 

12fJi. — A  day  of  investigations  and  discoveries — a  more  interesting 
day,  for  many  reasons,  than  I  had  ventured  to  anticipate. 

I  began  my  sight-seeing,  of  course,  with  the  bouse. 

The  main  body  of  the  building  is  of  the  time  of  that  highly  over- 
rated woman.  Queen  Elizabeth.  On  the  ground-floor  there  are  two 
hugely  long  galleries,  with  low  ceilings,  lying  parallel  with  each  oth- 
er, and  rendered  additionally  dark  and  dismal  by  hideous  family 
portraits— every  one  of  which  I  should  like  to  burn.  The  rooms  on 
the  floor  above  the  two  galleries  are  kept  in  tolerable  repau",  but  are 
very  seldom  used.  The  civil  housekeeper  who  acted  as  my  guide 
off"ered  to  show  me  over  them,  but  considerately  added  that  she 
feared  I  should  find  them  rather  out  of  order.  My  respect  for  the 
integrity  of  my  own  petticoats  and  stockings  infinitely  exceeds  my 
respect  for  all  the  Elizabethan  bedrooms  in  the  kingdom ;  so  I  posi- 
tively declined  exploring  the  upper  regions  of  dust  and  dirt  at  the 
risk  of  soiling  my  nice  clean  clothes.  The  housekeeper  said,  "  I  am 
quite  of  your  opinion,  miss,"  and  appeared  to  think  me  the  most 
sensible  woman  she  had  met  with  for  a  long  time  past. 

So  much,  then,  for  the  main  building.  Two  wings  are  added  at 
either  end  of  it.  The  half-ruined  wing  on  the  left  (as  you  approach 
the  house)  was  once  a  place  of  residence  standing  by  itself,  and  was 
built  in  the  fourteenth  century.  One  of  Sir  Percival's  maternal  an- 
cestors— I  don't  remember,  and  don't  care,  which — tacked  on  the 
main  building,  at  right  angles  to  it,  in  the  aforesaid  Queen  Eliza- 
beth's time.  The  housekeeper  told  me  that  the  architecture  of  "  the 
old  wing,"  both  outside  and  inside,  was  considered  remarkably  fine 
by  good  judges.  On  further  investigation,  I  discovered  that  good 
judges  could  only  exercise  their  abilities  on  Sir  Percival's  piece  of 
antiquity  by  previously  dismissing  from  their  minds  all  fear  of  damp, 


THE    WOMAX    IN    WHITE.  1*79 

rtarkness,  and  rats.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  unhesitatingly  ac- 
knowledged myself  to  be  no  judge  at  all,  and  suggested  that  we 
should  treat  "  the  old  wing  "  precisely  as  we  had  previously  treated 
the  Elizabethan  bedrooms.  Once  more  the  housekeeper  said,  "  I  am 
quite  of  your  opinion,  miss,"  and  once  more  she  looked  at  me  with 
undisguised  admiration  of  my  extraordinary  common  sense. 

We  went  next  to  the  wing  on  the  right,  which  was  built,  by  way 
of  completing  the  wonderful  architectural  jumble  at  Blackwater 
Park,  in  the  time  of  George  the  Second. 

This  is  the  habitable  part  of  the  house,  which  has  been  repaired 
and  redecorated  inside  on  Laura's  account.  My  two  rooms,  and  all 
the  good  bedrooms  besides,  are  on  the  first-floor ;  and  the  basement 
contains  a  drawing-room,  a  dining-room,  a  morning-room,  a  library, 
and  a  pretty  little  boudoir  for  Laura — all  very  nicely  ornamented  in 
the  bright  modern  way,  and  all  very  elegantly  furnished  with  the 
delightful  modern  luxuries.  None  of  the  rooms  are  any  thing  like 
so  large  and  airy  as  our  rooms  at  Limmeridge ;  but  they  all  look 
pleasant  to  live  in.  I  was  terribly  atraid,  from  what  I  had  heard  of 
Blackwater  Park,  of  fatiguing  antique  chairs,  and  dismal  stained 
glass,  and  musty,  fi-ouzy  hangings,  and  all  the  barbarous  lumber 
which  people  born  without  a  sense  of  comfort  accumulate  about 
them,  in  defiance  of  the  consideration  due  to  the  convenience  of  their 
friends.  It  is  an  inexpressible  relief  to  find  that  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury has  invaded  this  strange  future  home  of  mine,  and  has  swept 
the  dirty  "  good  old  times"  out  of  the  way  of  our  daily  life. 

I  dawdled  away  the  morning — part  of  the  time  in  the  rooms  down 
stairs,  and  part  out-of-doors,  in  the  great  square  which  is  formed  by 
the  three  sides  of  the  house  and  by  the  lofty  iron  railings  and  gates 
M'hich  protect  it  in  front.  A  large  cu'cular  fish-pond,  with  stone 
sides,  and  an  allegorical  leaden  monster  in  the  middle,  occupies  the 
centre  of  the  square.  The  pond  itself  is  full  of  gold  and  silver  fish, 
and  is  encircled  by  a  broad  belt  of  the  softest  turf  I  ever  walked  on. 
I  loitered  here,  on  the  shady  side,  pleasantly  enough,  till  luncheon- 
time,  and  after  that  took  my  broad  straw  hat  and  wandered  out 
alone,  in  the  warm,  lovely  sunlight,  to  explore  the  grounds. 

Daylight  confirmed  the  impression  which  I  had  felt  the  night  be- 
fore, of  there  being  too  many  trees  at  Blackwater.  The  house  is 
stifled  by  them.  They  are  for  the  most  part  young,  and  jDlanted  far 
too  thickly.  I  sus23ect  there  must  have  been  a  ruinous  cutting  down 
of  timber  all  over  the  estate  before  Sir  Percival's  time,  and  an  angry 
anxiety  on  the  part  of  the  next  possessor  to  fill  up  all  the  gaps  as 
thickly  and  rapidly  as  possible.  After  looking  about  me  in  front 
of  the  house,  I  observed  a  flower-garden  on  my  left  hand,  and  walk- 
ed toward  it,  to  see  what  I  could  discover  in  that  direction. 

On  a  nearer  view,  the  garden  proved  to  be  small  and  poor  and  ill- 


180  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

kept.  I  left  it  behind  me,  opened  a  little  gate  in  a  ring  fence,  and 
found  myself  iu  a  plantation  of  fir-trees. 

A  pretty,  winding  path,  artificially  made,  led  me  on  among  the 
trees ;  and  my  north-country  experience  soon  informed  me  that  I  was 
approaching  sandy,  heathy  ground.  After  a  walk  of  more  than  half 
a  mile,  I  should  think,  among  the  firs,  the  path  took  a  sharp  turn ; 
'■u,!  trees  abruptly  ceased  to  appear  on  either  side  of  me;  and  I  found 
myself  standing  suddenly  on  the  margin  of  a  vast  open  space,  and 
looking  down  at  the  Blackwater  lake  fi'om  which  the  House  takes 
its  name. 

The  ground,  shelving  away  below  me,  was  all  sand,  with  a  few  lit- 
tle heathy  hillocks  to  break  the  monotony  of  it  in  certain  places. 
The  lake  itself  had  evidently  once  flowed  to  the  spot  on  which  I 
stood,  and  had  been  gradually  wasted  and  dried  np  to  less  than  a 
third  of  its  former  size.  I  saw  its  still,  stagnant  waters  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  away  from  me  in  the  hollow,  separated  into  pools  and  ponds 
])y  twining  reeds  and  rushes  and  little  knolls  of  earth.  On  the  far- 
ther bank  from  me  the  trees  rose  thickly  again  and  shut  out  the  view, 
and  cast  their  black  shadows  on  the  sluggish,  shallow  water.  As  I 
walked  down  to  the  lake,  I  saw  that  the  ground  on  its  farther  side 
was  damp  and  marshy,  overgrown  with  rank  grass  and  dismal  wil- 
lows. The  water,  which  was  clear  enougli  on  the  open,  sandy  side, 
where  the  sun  shone,  looked  black  and  poisonous  opposite  to  me, 
where  it  lay  deeper  under  the  shade  of  the  spongy  banks  and  the 
rank  overhanging  thickets  and  tangled  trees.  The  frogs  were  croak- 
ing, and  the  rats  wore  slipping  in  and  out  of  the  shadowy  water,  like 
live  shadows  themselves,  as  I  got  nearer  to  the  marshy  side  of  the 
lake.  I  saw  here,  lying  half  in  and  half  out  of  the  water,  the  rotten 
wreck  of  an  old,  overturned  boat,  with  a  sickly  spot  of  sunlight  glim- 
mering through  a  gap  in  the  trees  on  its  dry  surface,  and  a  snake 
basking  in  the  midst  of  the  spot,  fantastically  coiled,  and  treacher- 
ously still.  Far  and  near,  the  view  suggested  the  same  dreary  im- 
pressions of  solitude  and  decay ;  and  the  gloiious  brightness  of  the 
summer  sky  overhead  seemed  only  to  deepen  and  harden  the  gloom 
and  barrenness  of  the  wilderness  on  which  it  shone.  I  turned  and 
retraced  my  steps  to  the  high,  heathy  ground,  directing  them  a  little 
aside  from  my  former  path,  toward  a  shab>)y  old  wooden  shed  which 
stood  on  the  outer  skirt  of  the  fir  plantation,  and  which  had  hitherto 
been  too  unimportant  to  share  my  notice  with  the  wide,  wild  pros- 
pect of  the  '  i'  ('. 

On  approaching  the  shed,  I  found  that  it  had  once  been  a  boat- 
house,  and  that  an  attempt  had,  apparently,  been  made  to  convert  it 
afterward  into  a  sort  of  rude  arbor,  by  placing  inside  it  a  fir-wood 
scat,  a  few  stools,  and  a  table.  I  entered  the  place  and  sat  down  for 
a  little  while,  to  rest  and  get  my  breath  again. 


THE    AVOMAX    IN    AVHITE.  181 

I  had  not  been  in  tlie  boat-house  more  than  a  minute,  when  it 
struck  me  that  the  sound  of  my  own  quick  breathing  was  very 
strangely  echoed  by  something  beneath  me.  I  listened  intently  for 
a  moment,  and  heard  a  low,  thick,  sobbing  breath  that  seemed  to 
come  from  the  ground  under  the  seat  which  I  was  occupying.  My 
nerves  are  not  easily  shaken  by  trifles,  but  on  this  occasion  I  started 
to  my  feet  in  a  fright — called  out — received  no  answer — summoned 
back  my  recreant  courage — and  looked  under  the  seat. 

There,  crouched  up  in  the  farthest  comer,  lay  the  forlorn  cause  of 
my  terror,  in  the  shape  of  a  poor  little  dog — a  bkok-and-white  span- 
iel. The  creature  moaned  feebly  when  I  looked  at  it  and  called  to 
it,  but  never  stirred.  I  moved  away  the  seat  and  looked  closer.  The 
poor  little  dog's  eyes  were  glazing  fast,  and  there  were  sj^^ots  of  blood 
on  its  glossy  white  side.  The  misery  of  a  weak,  helpless,  ciumb  crea- 
ture is  surely  one  of  the  saddest  of  all  the  mournful  sights  which  this 
world  can  show.  I  lifted  the  poor  dog  in  my  arms  as  gently  as  I 
could,  and  contrived  a  sort  of  make-shift  hammock  for  him  to  lie  in, 
by  gathering  up  the  front  of  my  dress  all  round  him.  In  this  way  I 
took  the  creature,  as  painlessly  as  possible,  and  as  fast  as  possible, 
back  to  the  house. 

Finding  no  one  in  the  hall,  I  went  up  at  once  to  my  own  sitting- 
room,  made  a  bed  for  the  dog  with  one  of  my  old  shawls,  and  rang 
the  bell.  The  largest  and  fattest  of  all  possible  house-maids  answer- 
ed it,  in  a  state  of  cheerful  stupidity  which  would  have  provoked  the 
patience  of  a  saint.  The  girVs  fat.  shapeless  face  actually  stretched 
into  a  broad  grin  at  the  sight  of  the  wounded  creature  on  the  floor. 

"  What  do  you  see  there  to  laugh  at  ?"'  I  asked,  as  angrily  as  if  she 
had  been  a  servant  of  my  own.     "■  Do^you  know  whose  dog  it  is  V 

"  No,  miss,  that  I  certainly  don't."  She  stopped,  and  looked  down 
at  the  spaniel's  injured  side — brightened  suddenly  with  the  irradia- 
tion of  a  new  idea — and,  pointing  to  the  wound  with  a  chuckle  of 
satisfaction,  said,  "  That's  Baxter's  doings,  that  is.'' 

I  was  so  exasperated  that  I  could  have  boxed  her  ears.  "  Baxter  ?" 
I  said,     "Who  is  the  brute  you  call  Baxter?"' 

The  girl  grinned  again,  more  cheerfully  than  ever.  '■  Bless  you, 
miss  !  Baxter's  the  keeper ;  and  when  he  finds  strange  dogs  hunting 
about,  he  takes  and  shoots  'em.  It's  keeper's  dooty,  miss.  I  think 
that  dog  will  die.  Here's  where  he's  been  shot,  ain't  it  ?  Tliat's 
Baxter's  doings,  that  is.     Baxter's  doings,  miss,  and  Baxter's  dooty." 

I  was  almost  wicked  enough  to  wish  that  Baxter  had  shot  the 
house-maid  instead  of  the  dog.  Seeing  that  it  was  quite  useless  to 
expect  this  densely  impenetrable  jDersonage  to  give  me  any  help  in 
relieving  the  suflering  creature  at  our  feet,  I  told  her  to  request  the 
housekeeper's  attendance  with  my  compliments.  She  went  out  ex- 
actlv  as  she  had  come  in,  irrinnina-  from  car  to  ear.     As  the  door 


182  THE    WOMAN    IX   WHITE. 

."loscd  on  licr,  slic  said  to  herself,  softly,  "  It's  Baxter's  doings  and 
Baxter's  dooty — that's  what  it  is." 

The  housekeeper,  a  person  of  some  education  and  intelligence, 
thoughtfully  brought  up  stairs  "vvitli  her  some  milk  and  some  warm 
water.  The  instant  she  saw  the  dog  on  the  floor  she  started  and 
changed  color. 

"  Why,  Lord  bless  me,"  cried  the  housekeejDer,  "  that  must  be  Mrs. 
Catherick's  dog !" 

"  Whose  ?"  I  asked,  in  the  utmost  astonishment. 

"  Mrs.  Catherick's.  You  seem  to  know  Mrs.  Catherick,  Miss  Hal- 
combe  ?" 

"  Not  personally.  But  I  have  heard  of  her.  Does  she  live  here  ? 
Has  she  had  any  news  of  her  daughter  ?" 

"  No,  Miss  Halcombe.     She  came  here  to  ask  for  news." 

"  Wlien  ?" 

"  Only  yesterday.  She  said  some  one  had  reported  that  a 
stranger  answering  to  the  description  of  her  daughter  had  been  seen 
in  our  neighborhood.  No  such  rejiort  has  reached  us  here,  and  no 
such  report  was  known  in  the  village  when  I  sent  to  make  inquiries 
there  on  Mrs.  Catherick's  account.  She  certainly  brought  this  poor 
little  dog  with  her  when  she  came,  and  I  saw"  it  trot  out  after  her 
when  she  went  away.  I  suppose  the  creature  strayed  into  the  jDlan- 
tations,  and  got  shot.     Where  did  you  find  it,  Miss  Halcombe  ?" 

"  In  the  old  shed  that  looks  out  on  the  lake." 

"  Ah  yes,  that  is  the  jDlantation  side,  and  the  poor  thing  dragged 
itself,  I  suppose,  to  the  nearest  shelter,  as  dogs  will,  to  die.  If  you 
can  moisten  its  lips  wdth  the  milk,  Miss  Halcombe,  I  will  wash  the 
clotted  hair  from  the  wound.  I  am  veiy  much  afraid  it  is  too  late 
to  do  any  good.     However,  we  can  but  try." 

Mrs.  Catherick  !  The  name  still  rang  in  my  ears,  as  if  the  house- 
keeper had  only  that  moment  surprised  me  by  uttering  it.  While 
w^e  wTre  attending  to  the  dog,  the  words  of  Walter  Hartrighfs  cau- 
tion to  me  returned  to  my  memory.  ''  If  ever  Anne  Catherick  cross- 
es your  path,  make  better  use  of  the  opportunity,  Miss  Halcombe, 
than  I  made  of  it."  The  finding  of  the  wounded  spaniel  had  led 
me  already  to  the  discovery  of  Mrs.  Catherick's  visit  to  Blackwater 
Park ;  and  that  event  might  lead,  in  its  turn,  to  something  more.  I 
determined  to  make  the  most  of  the  chance  w^hich  was  now  offered 
to  me,  and  to  gain  as  much  information  as  I  could. 

"  Did  you  say  that  Mrs.  Catherick  lived  anywhere  in  this  neigh- 
borhood ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "  She  lives  at  Welming- 
ham  ;  quite  at  the  other  end  of  the  county — five-and-twenty  miles 
off  at  least." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  known  Mrs.  Catherick  for  some  years  V 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  183 

"  On  the  contrary,  Miss  Halcombe,  I  never  saw  her  before  she  came 
here  yesterday.  I  had  heard  of  her,  of  course,  because  I  had  heard 
of  Sh*  Percivars  kindness  in  putting  her  daughter  under  medical 
care.  Mrs.  Catherick  is  rather  a  strange  person  in  her  manners,  but 
extremely  respectable-looking.  She  seemed  sorely  put  out  when  she 
found  that  there  was  no  foundation — none,  at  least,  that  any  of  ns 
could  discover — for  the  report  of  her  daughter  having  been  seen  in 
this  neighborhood." 

"  I  am  rather  interested  about  Mrs,  Catherick,''  I  went  on,  continu- 
ing tlie  conversation  as  long  as  possible.  "  I  wish  I  had  arrived  here 
soon  enough  to  see  her  yesterday.   Did  she  stay  for  any  length  of  time  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  housekeeper,  "  she  staid  for  some  time.  And  I 
think  she  would  have  remained  longer  if  I  had  not  been  called 
away  to  speak  to  a  strange  gentleman — a  gentleman  who  came  to 
ask  when  Sir  Percival  was  expected  back.  Mrs.  Catherick  got  up 
and  left  at  once,  when  she  heard  the  maid  tell  me  what  the  visitor's 
errand  was.  She  said  to  me,  at  parting,  that  there  was  no  need  to 
tell  Sir  Percival  of  her  coming  here.  I  thought  that  rather  an  odd 
remark  to  make,  especially  to  a  person  in  my  resi^onsible  situation." 

I  thought  it  an  odd  remark,  too.  Sir  Percival  had  certainly  led 
me  to  believe,  at  Limmeridge,  that  the  most  perfect  confidence  exist- 
ed between  himself  and  Mrs.  Catherick.  If  that  was  the  case,  why 
should  she  be  anxious  to  have  her  visit  at  Blackwater  Park  kept  a 
secret  from  him  ? 

''  Probably,"  I  said,  seeing  that  the  housekeeper  expected  me  to 
give  my  opinion  on  Mrs.  Catherick's  parting  words ;  "  probably,  she 
thought  the  announcement  of  her  visit  might  vex  Sir  Percival  to  no 
purpose,  by  reminding  him  that  her  lost  daughter  was  not  found 
yet.     Did  she  talk  much  on  that  subject  ?" 

'*  Very  little,"  replied  the  housekeeper.  "  She  talked  principally 
of  Sir  Percival,  and  asked  a  great  many  questions  about  where  he 
had  been  traveling,  and  what  sort  of  lady  his  new  wife  was.  She 
seemed  to  be  more  soured  and  put  out  than  distressed,  by  failing  to 
find  any  traces  of  her  daughter  in  these  parts.  '  I  give  her  up,'  were 
the  last  words  she  said  that  I  can  remember  ;  '  I  give  her  up,  ma'am, 
for  lost.'  And  from  that  she  passed  at  once  to  her  questions  about 
Lady  Glyde  ;  wanting  to  know  if  she  was  a  handsome,  amiable  lady, 
comely  and  healthy  and  young —  Ah,  dear  !  I  thought  how  it 
would  end.  Look,  Miss  Halcombe  I  the  poor  thing  is  out  of  its  mis- 
ery at  last  I'' 

The  dog  was  dead.  It  had  given  a  faint,  sobbing  cry,  it  had  suf- 
fered an  instant's  convulsion  of  the  limbs,  just  as  those  last  words, 
'■  comely  and  healthy  and  young,"  drojDjDcd  from  the  housekeeper's 
lips.  The  change  had  happened  with  startling  suddenness — in  one 
moment  the  creature  lay  lifeless  under  our  hands. 


184  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Eifjht  o'docl'. — I  have  just  returned  from  dining  down  stairs,  in  sol> 
itary  state.  The  sunset  is  burning  redly  on  the  wilderness  of  trees 
tliat  I  see  from  my  window,  and  I  am  poring  over  my  journal  again, 
to  calm  my  impatience  for  the  return  of  the  travelers.  They  ought 
to  have  arrived,  by  my  calculations,  before  this.  How  still  and  lone- 
ly the  house  is,  in  the  drowsy  evening  quiet  I  Oh  me  I  how  many 
minutes  more  before  I  Ticar  the  carriage  wheels  and  run  down  stairs 
to  find  myself  in  Laura's  arms? 

The  poor  little  dog  !  I  wish  my  first  day  at  Black  water  Park  had 
not  been  associated  with  death,  though  it  is  only  the  death  of  a  stray 
animal. 

Welmingham — I  see,  on  looking  back  through  these  private  pages 
of  mine,  that  Welmingham  is  the  name  of  the  place  where  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick  lives.  Her  note  is  still  in  my  possession,  the  note  in  answer  to 
that  letter  about  her  unhappy  daughter  which  Sir  Percival  obliged 
me  to  write.  One  of  these  days,  when  I  can  find  a  safe  opportunity, 
I  will  take  the  note  with  me  by  way  of  introduction,  and  trj-  what  I 
can  make  of  Mrs.  Catherick  at  a  personal  interview.  I  don't  under- 
stand her  wishing  to  conceal  her  visit  to  this  place  from  Sir  Perci- 
val's  knowledge ;  and  I  don't  feel  half  so  sure,  as  tlie  housekeeper 
seems  to  do,  that  her  daughter  Anne  is  not  in  the  neighborhood,  af- 
ter all.  What  would  Walter  Hartright  have  said  in  this  emergen- 
cy ?  Poor,  dear  Hartright !  I  am  beginning  to  feel  the  want  of  his 
honest  advice  and  his  willing  help  already. 

Surely  I  heard  something.  Was  it  a  bustle  of  footsteps  below 
stairs  ?     Yes  I  I  hear  the  horses'  feet ;  I  hear  the  rolling  Avheels — 

H. 

June  loth. — The  confusion  of  their  arrival  has  had  time  to  sub- 
side. Two  days  have  elapsed  since  the  return  of  the  travelers,  and 
that  interval  has  sutficcd  to  put  the  new  machinery  of  our  lives  at 
Blackwater  Park  in  fair  working  order.  I  may  now  return  to  my 
journal,  with  some  little  chance  of  being  able  to  continue  the  entries 
in  it  as  collectedly  as  usual, 

I  think  I  must  begin  by  putting  down  an  odd  remark  which  has 
suggested  itself  to  me  since  Laura  came  back. 

When  two  members  of  a  family,  or  two  intimate  friends,  are  sepa- 
rated, and  one  goes  abroad  and  one  remains  at  home,  the  return  of 
the  relative  or  friend  who  ha''  been  traveling  always  seems  to  place 
the  relative  or  friend  who  has  been  staying  at  home  at  a  painful  dis- 
advantage, when  the  two  first  meet.  The  sudden  encounter  of  the 
new  thoughts  and  new  habits  eagerly  gained  in  the  one  case,  with 
the  old  thoughts  and  old  habits  passively  preserved  in  the  other, 
seems,  at  first,  to  part  the  sympathies  of  the  most  loving  relatives  and 
the  fondest  friends,  and  to  set  a  sudder.  strangeness,  unexpected  by 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  185 

both  and  imcontrollable  by  both,  between  tliem  on  cither  side.  Af- 
ter the  first  happiness  of  my  meeting  with  Laura  was  over,  after  we 
had  sat  down  together,  hand  in  liand,  to  recover  breath  enough  and 
calmness  enough  to  talk,  I  felt  this  strangeness  instantly,  and  I  could 
see  that  she  felt  it  too.  It  has  partially  worn  awaj^  now  that  we 
have  fallen  back  into  most  of  our  old  habits;  and  it  will  probably 
disappear  before  long.  But  it  has  certainly  had  an  influence  over 
the  first  impressions  that  I  have  formed  of  her,  now  that  we  are  liv- 
ing together  again — for  which  reason  only  I  have  thought  fit  to  men- 
tion it  here. 

She  has -found  me  unaltered;  but  I  have  found  her  changed. 

Changed  in  person,  and,  in  one  respect,  changed  in  character.  I 
can  not  absolutely  say  that  she  is  less  beautiful  than  she  used  to  be ; 
I  can  only  say  that  she  is  less  beautiful  to  me. 

Others,  who  do  not  look  at  her  with  my  eyes  and  my  recollections, 
would  probably  think  her  improved.  There  is  more  color,  and  more 
decision  and  roundness  of  outline,  in  her  face  than  there  used  to  be  ; 
and  her  figure  seems  more  firmly  set,  and  more  sure  and  easy  in  all 
its  movements,  than  it  was  in  her  maiden  days.  But  I  miss  some- 
thing when  I  look  at  her — something  that  once  belonged  to  the 
happy,  innocent  life  of  Laura  Fairlie,  and  that  I  can  not  find  in 
Lady  Glyde.  There  was,  in  the  old  times,  a  freshness,  a  softness,  ., 
an  ever-varying  and  yet  ever-remaining  tenderness  of  beauty  in  her- 
face,  the  chann  of  which  it  is  not  possible  to  express  in  words — or, 
as  poor  Hartright  used  often  to  say,  in  painting,  either.  This  is 
gone.  I  thought  I  saw  the  faint  reflection  of  it  for  a  moment,  w^hen 
she  turned  pale  under  the  agitation  of  ou^*  sudden  meeting,  on  the 
evening  of  her  return ;  but  it  has  never  re-apjDcared  since.  None 
of  her  letters  had  prepared  me  for  a  personal  change  in  her.  On 
the  contrary,  they  had  led  me  to  expect  that  her  marriage  had  left 
her,  in  appearance  at  least,  quite  unaltered.  Perhaps  I  read  her  let- 
ters wrongly  in  the  past,  and  am  now  reading  her  face  wrongly  in 
the  present?  No  matter!  Whether  her  beauty  has  gained  or 
whether  it  has  lost  in  the  last  six  months,  the  separation,  either 
way,  has  made  her  own  dear  self  more  precious  to  me  than  ever — 
and  that  is  one  good  result  of  her  marriage,  at  any  rate  ! 

The  second  change,  the  change  that  I  have  observed  in  her  char- 
acter, has  not  surprised  me,  because  I  was  prej^ared  for  it,  in  this 
case,  by  the  tone  of  her  letters.  Now  that  she  is  at  home  again,  I 
find  her  just  as  unwilling  to  enter  into  any  details  on  the  eulycct  of 
her  married  life  as  I  had  previously  found  her  all  through  the  time 
of  our  separation,  when  we  could  only  communicate  with  each  other 
by  writing.  At  the  first  approach  I  made  to  the  forbidden  topic, 
she  put  her  hand  on  my  lips,  with  a  look  and  gesture  which  touch- 
ingly,  almost  painfully,  recalled  to  my  memory  the  days  of  her  girl- 


186  Tin:  woman  in  aviiite. 

hood  and  the  happy,  l)Y-gonc  time  when  tliere  were  no  secrets  be. 
twcen  us. 

"  Wliencver  you  and  I  are  together,  Marian,"  she  said,  "  we  shah 
botli  he  liaj)pier  and  easier  with  one  another,  if  we  accept  my  mar- 
ried Hte  for  what  it  is,  and  say  and  think  as  little  about  it  as  possi- 
ble. I  would  tell  you  every  thing,  darling,  about  myself,"  she  went 
on,  nervously  buckling  and  unbuckling  the  ribbon  round  my  waist, 
"if  my  confidences  could  only  end  tliere.  But  they  could  not — they 
woukl  lead  me  into  confidences  about  my  husband,  too ;  and,  now  I 
am  married,  I  think  I  had  better  avoid  them,  for  his  sake,  and  for 
your  sake,  and  for  mine.  I  don't  say  that  they  would  distress  you, 
or  distress  me — I  wouldn't  have  you  think  that  for  the  world.  But 
— I  want  to  be* so  happy,  now  I  have  got  you  back  again;  and  I 
want  you  to  be  so  happy  too — "  She  broke  off  abruptly,  and  looked 
round  the  room,  my  own  sitting-room,  in  which  we  were  talking. 
"Ah  I"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  with  a  bright  smile  of  recogni- 
tion, "  another  old  friend  found  already !  Your  book-case,  Marian 
— your  dear-little-shabby-old-satin-w^ood  book-case — how  glad  I  am 
you  brought  it  with  you  from  Limmeridge  !  And  the  horrid,  heavy, 
man's  umbrella,  that  you  always  would  walk  out  with  when  it  rain- 
ed !  And,  first  and  foremost  of  all,  your  own  dear,  dark,  clever,  gyp- 
sy-face, looking  at  me  just  as  usual !  It  is  so  like  home  again  to  be 
here.  How  can  we  make  it  more  like  home  still  ?  I  will  put  my  fa- 
ther's portrait  in  your  room  instead  of  in  mine — and  I  will  keep  all 
my  little  treasures  from  Limmeridge  here — and  we  will  pass  hours 
and  hours  every  day  with  these  four  friendly  walls  round  us.  Oh, 
Marian  I"  she  said,  suddenly  seating  herself  on  a  footstool  at  my  knees, 
and  looking  up  earnestly  in  my  face,  "  promise  you  will  never  marry, 
and  leave  me.  It  is  selfish  to  say  so,  but  you  are  so  much  better  off 
as  a  single  woman — unless — unless  you  are  very  fond  of  your  hus- 
band— but  you  won  t  be  \ery  fond  of  any  body  but  me,  will  you  ?" 
PShe  stopped  again,  crossed  my  hands  on  my  lap,  and  laid  her  face  on 
Lthem.  ''  Have  you  been  writing  many  letters,  and  receiving  many 
letters,  lately  ?"  she  asked,  in  low,  suddenly-altered  tones.  I  under- 
stood what  the  question  meant;  but  I  thought  it  my  duty  not  to 
encourage  her  by  meeting  her  half-way.  "Have  you  heard  from 
him  ?"  she  went  on,  coaxing  mc  to  forgive  the  more  direct  appeal  or-. 
Which  she  now  ventured,  by  kissing  my  hands,  upon  which  her  face 
Btill  rested.  "Is  he  well  and  happy,  and  getting  on  in  his  profes- 
sion ?     Has  he  recovered  himself— and  forgotten  me .?" 

She  should  not  have  asked  those  questions.  She  should  have  re- 
membered her  own  resolution,  on  the  morning  when  Sir  Percival  held 
her  to  her  marriage  engagement,  and  when  she  resigned  the  book  of 
Hartright's  drawings  into  my  hands  forever.  But,  ah  me  !  where  is 
the  faultless  human  creature  who  can  persevere  in  a  good  resolution 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  187 

without  sometimes  foiling  and  foiling  back  ?  Where  is  the  woman 
who  has  ever  really  torn  from  her  heart  the  unage  that  has  been 
once  fixed  in  it  by  a  true  love  ?  Books  tell  us  that  such  unearthly 
creatures  have  existed;  but  what  does  our  own  experience  say  in 
answer  to  books  ? 

I  made  no  attempt  to  remonstrate  with  her,  perhaps  because  I  sin- 
cerely appreciated  the  fearless  candor  which  let  me  see  what  other 
women  in  her  position  might  have  had  reasons  for  concealing  even 
from  their  dearest  friends — j^^rhaps  because  I  felt,  in  my  own  heart 
and  conscience,  that,  in  her  place,  I  should  have  asked  the  same 
questions  and  had  the  same  thoughts.  All  I  could  honestly  do  was 
to  reply  that  I  had  not  written  to  him  or  heard  from  him  lately,  and 
then  to  turn  the  conversation  to  less  dangerous  tojDics. 

There  has  been  much  to  sadden  me  in  our  interview — my  first  con- 
fidential interview  with  her  since  her  return.  The  change  which  her 
marriage  has  produced  in  our  relations  toward  each  other,  by  placing 
a  forbidden  subject  between  us,  for,  the  first  time  in  our  lives ;  the 
melancholy  conviction  of  the  dearth  of  all  warmth  of  feeling,  of  all 
close  sympathy,  between  her  husljand  and  herself,  which  her  own  un- 
willing words  now  force  on  my  mind ;  the  distressing  discovery  that 
the  influence  of  that  ill-fiited  attachment  still  remains  (no  matter  how 
innocently,  how  harmlessly)  rooted  as  deei^ly  as  ever  in  her  heart — 
all  these  are  disclosures  to  sadden  any  woman  who  loves  her  as  dear- 
ly, and  feels  for  her  as  acutely,  as  I  do. 

There  is  only  one  consolation  to  set  against  them — a  consolation 
that  ought  to  comfort  me,  and  that  does  comfort  me.  All  the  graces 
and  gentlenesses  of  her  character ;  all  the  frank  afiection  of  her  na- 
ture; all  the  sweet,  simple,  womanly  charms  which  used  to  make  her 
the  darling  and  delight  of  every  one  who  approached  her,  have  come 
back  to  me  with  herself.  Of  my  other  impressions  I  am  sometimes  a 
little  inclined  to  doubt.  Of  this  last,  best,  happiest  of  all  impressions, 
I  grow  more  and  more  certain  evei7  hour  in  the  day. 

Let  me  turn  now  from  her  to  her  traveling  companions.  Her  hus- 
band must  engage  my  attention  first.  What  have  I  observed  in  Sir 
Percival,  since  his  return,  to  improve  my  opinion  of  him  ? 

I  can  hardly  say.  Small  vexations  and  annoyances  seem  to  have 
beset  him  since  he  came  back  :  and  no  man,  under  those  circumstan- 
ces, is  ever  presented  at  his  best.  He  looks,  as  I  think,  thinner  than 
he  was  when  he  left  England.  His  wearisome  cough  and  his  com- 
fortless restlessness  have  certainly  increased.  His  manner — at  least 
his  manner  toward  me — is  much  more  abrupt  than  it  used  to  be.  He 
greeted  me,  on  the  evening  of  his  return,  with  little  or  nothing  of  the 
ceremony  and  civility  of  former  times — no  polite  speeches  of  wel- 
come— no  appearance  of  extraordinary  gratification  at  seeing  me— 
nothing  but  a  short  shake  of  the  hand,  and  a  sharp  "  How-d'ye-do, 


188  THE    WOMAX    IN    WHITE. 

Miss  Ilalcombc — i<;lad  to  sec  you  again."  lie  seemed  to  accept  me 
as  one  of  the  necessary  fixtures  of  Black  water  Park  ;  to  be  satisfied  at 
finding  me  established  in  my  projjer  place ;  and  then  to  pass  me  over 
altogether. 

Most  men  show  something  of  their  dispositions  in  their  own  hou.ses 
which  they  have  concealed  elsewhere,  and  Sir  Percival  has  already 
displayed  a  mania  for  order  and  regularity  which  is  quite  a  new  rev- 
elation of  him,  so  far  as  my  pre\4ous  knowledge  of  his  character  is 
concerned.  If  I  take  a  book  from  the  library  and  leave  it  on  the 
tal)le,  he  follows  me  and  puts  it  back  again.  If  I  rise  from  a  chair 
and  let  it  remain  where  I  have  been  sitting,  he  carefully  restores  it  to 
its  proper  place  against  the  wall.  He  picks  up  stray  flower-blossoms 
from  the  caq)et,  and  mutters  to  himself  as  discontentedly  as  if  they 
were  hot  cinders  burning  holes  in  it ;  and  he  storms  at  the  servants 
if  there  is  a  crease  in  the  table-cloth,  or  a  knife  missing  from  its 
place  at  the  dinner-table,  as  fiercely  as  if  they  had  personally  insulted 
him. 

I  have  already  referred  to  the  small  annoyances  which  appear  to 
have  troubled  him  since  his  return.  Much  of  the  alteration  for  the 
w^orse  which  I  have  noticed  in  him  may  be  due  to  these.  I  try  to 
persuade  myself  that  it  is  so,  because  I  am  anxious  not  to  be  dis- 
heartened already  about  the  future.  It  is  certainly  trj-ing  to  any 
man's  temper  to  be  met  by  a  vexation  the  moment  he  sets  foot  in 
his  own  house  again,  after  a  long  absence ;  and  this  annoying  circum- 
stance did  really  happen  to  Sir  Percival  in  my  presence. 

On  the  evening  of  their  arrival,  the  housekeeper  followed  me  into 
the  hall  to  receive  her  master  and  mistress  and  their  guests.  The  in- 
stant he  saw  her.  Sir  Percival  asked  if  any  one  had  called  lately. 
The  housekeeper  mentioned  to  him,  in  reply,  what  she  had  previous- 
ly mentioned  to  me,  the  visit  of  the  strange  gentleman  to  make  in- 
quiries about  the  time  of  her  master's  return.  He  asked  immediate- 
ly for  the  gentleman's  name.  No  name  had  been  left.  The  gentle- 
man's business  ?  No  business  had  been  mentioned.  What  was  the 
gentleman  like  ?  The  housekeeper  tried  to  describe  him,  but  failed 
to  distinguish  the  nameless  visitor  by  any  personal  peculiarity  which 
her  master  could  recognize.  Sir  Percival  frowned,  stamped  angrily 
on  the  floor,  and  walked  on  into  the  house,  taking  no  notice  of  any 
body.  Why  he  should  have  been  so  discomposed  by  a  trifle  I  can 
not  say,  but  he  was  seriously  discomposed,  beyond  all  doubt. 

Upon  the  whole,  it  will  be  best,  perhaps,  if  I  al)stain  from  forming 
a  decisive  opinion  of  his  manners,  language,  and  conduct  in  his  own 
house,  until  time  has  enabled  him  to  shake  off  the  anxieties,  what- 
ever they  may  be,  which  now  evidently  trouble  his  mind  in  secret.  I 
will  turn  over  to  a  new  page ;  and  my  pen  shall  let  Laura's  husband 
alone  for  the  i)rescnt. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  189 

The  two  guests — the  Count  and  Countess  Fosco — come  next  in  my 
catalogue.  I  will  dispose  of  the  Countess  first,  so  as  to  have  done 
with  the  woman  as  soon  as  possible. 

Laura  was  certainly  not  chargeable  with  any  exaggeration  in  writ- 
ing me  w^ord  that  I  should  hardly  recognize  lier  aunt  again,  when  we 
met.  Never  before  have  I  beheld  such  a  change  produced  in  a  wom- 
an by  her  marriage  as  has  been  produced  in  Madame  Fosco. 

As  Eleanor  Fairlie  (aged  seven-and-thirty),  she  was  always  talking 
Irretentions  nonsense,  and  always  worrying  the  unfortunate  men  with 
every  small  exaction  which  a  vain  and  foolish  woman  can  impose  on 
long-suflFering  male  humanity.  As  Madame  Fosco  (aged  three-and- 
forty),  she  sits  for  hours  together  without  saying  a  word,  frozen  up  in 
the  strangest  manner  in  herself.  The  hideously  ridiculous  love-locks 
which  used  to  hang  on  either  side  of  her  face  are  now  replaced  by 
stiff  little  rows  of  very  short  curls,  of  the  sort  that  one  sees  in  old- 
ftishioned  wigs.  A  plain,  matronly  cap  covers  her  head,  and  makes 
her  look,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  since  I  remember  her,  like  a  de- 
cent woman.  Nobody  (putting  her  husband  out  of  the  question,  of 
course)  now  sees  in  her,  what  every  body  once  saw  —  I  mean  the 
structure  of  the  female  skeleton,  in  the  upper  regions  of  the  collar- 
bones and  the  shoulder-blades.  Clad  in  quiet  black  or  gray  gowns, 
made  high  round  the  throat — dresses  that  she  would  have  laughed 
at,  or  screamed  at,  as  the  wdiim  of  the  moment  inclined  her,  in  her 
maiden  days — she  sits  speechless  in  corners ;  her  cliy  white  hands  (so 
dry  that  the  pores  of  her  skin  look  chalky)  incessantly  engaged, 
e-'ther  in  monotonous  embroidery  work,  or  in  rolling  up  endless  little 
cigarettes  for  the  Count's  own  particular  smoking.  On  the  few  oc- 
casions when  her  cold  blue  eyes  are  off  her  work  they  are  generally 
turned  on  her  husband,  with  the  look  of  mute,  submissive  inquiry 
which  we  are  all  familiar  with  in  the  eyes  of  a  faithful  dog.  The 
only  approach  to  an  inward  thaw  which  I  have  yet  detected  under 
her  outer  covering  of  icy  constraint  has  betrayed  itself,  once  or  twice, 
in  the  form  of  a  suppressed  tigerish  jealousy  of  any  woman  in  the 
house  (the  maids  included)  to  whom  the  Count  speaks,  or  on  whom 
he  looks  with  any  thing  approaching  to  special  interest  or  attention. 
Except  in  this  one  particular,  she  is  always,  morning,  noon,  and  night, 
indoors  and  out,  fair  weather  or  foul,  as  cold  as  a  statue,  and  as  im- 
penetrable as  the  stone  out  of  which  it  is  cut.  For  the  common  pur- 
poses of  society  the  extraordinary  change  thus  produced  in  her  is,  l)e- 
yond  all  doubt,  a  change  for  the  better,  seeing  that  it  has  transform- 
ed her  into  a  civil,  silent,  unobtrusive  woman,  who  is  never  in  the~ 
way.  How  far  she  is  really  reformed  or  deteriorated  in  her  secret 
self,  is  another  question.  I  have  once  or  twice  seen  sudden  changes 
of  expression  on  her  pinched  lips,  and  heard  sudden  inficctions  of 
tone  in  her  calm  voice,  which  have  led  me  to  suspect  that  her  pres- 


190  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

ent  state  of  suppression  may  have  sealed  up  something  dangerous  in 
her  nature,  whieh  used  to  evaporate  harmlessly  in  the  freedom  of 
her  former  life.  It  is  quite  possible  that  I  may  be  altogether  wrong 
in  this  idea.  My  own  impression,  however,  is,  that  I  am  right.  Time 
will  show. 

And  the  magician  who  has  wrought  this  wonderful  transformation 
— the  foreign  husband  who  has  tamed  this  once  wayward  English- 
woman till  her  own  relations  hardly  know  her  again — the  Count 
himself  ?     What  of  the  Count  ? 

This,  in  two  words :  He  looks  like  a  man  who  could  tame  any 
thing.  If  he  had  married  a  tigress,  instead  of  a  woman,  he  would 
have  tamed  the  tigress.  If  he  had  married  me^  I  should  have  made 
his  cigarettes  as  his  wife  does — I  should  have  held  my  tongue  when 
he  looked  at  me,  as  she  holds  hers. 

I  am  almost  afraid  to  confess  it,  even  to  these  secret  pages.  The 
man  has  interested  me,  has  attracted  me,  has  forced  me  to  like  him. 
In  two  short  days  he  has  made  his  way  straight  into  my  favor- 
able estimation — and  how^  he  has  worked  the  miracle  is  more  than  I 
can  tell. 

It  absolutely  startles  me,  now  he  is  in  my  mind,  to  find  how  plain- 
ly I  see  him  ! — how  much  more  plainly  than  I  see  Sir  Percival,  or 
Mr.  Fairlie,  or  "Walter  Hartright,  or  any  other  absent  person  of  whom 
I  think,  with  the  one  exception  of  Laura  herself  I  I  can  hear  his 
voice,  as  if  he  was  speaking  at  this  moment.  I  know  what  his  con- 
versation w^as  yesterday,  as  well  as  if  I  was  hearing  it  now.  How 
am  I  to  describe  him  ?  There  are  peculiarities  in  his  personal  ap- 
pearance, his  habits,  and  his  amusements,  which  I  should  blame  in 
the  boldest  terms,  or  ridicule  in  the  most  merciless  manner,  if  I  had 
seen  them  in  another  man.  What  is  it  that  makes  me  unable  to 
blame  them,  or  to  ridicule  them  in  iiim? 

For  example,  he  is  immensely  fat.  Before  this  time,  I  have  al- 
ways especially  disliked  coq^ulent  humanity.  I  have  always  main- 
tained that  the  popular  notion  of  connecting  excessive  grossness  of 
size  and  excessive  good-humor  as  inseparable  allies  was  equivalent 
to  declaring,  either  that  no  people  but  amiable  people  ever  get  fat, 
or  that  the  accidental  addition  of  so  many  pounds  of  flesh  has  a 
directly  favorable  influence  over  the  disposition  of  the  person 
on  whose  body  they  accumulate.  I  have  invariably  combated  both 
these  absurd  assertions  by  quoting  examples  of  fat  people  who  were 
as  mean,  vicious,  and  cruel,  as  tlie  leanest  and  worst  of  their  neigh- 
bors. I  have  asked  whether  Henry  the  Eighth  was  an  amiable 
character?  whether  Pope  Alexantler  the  Sixth  was  a  good  man? 
Whether  ^Iv.  INIurdcrer  and  Mrs.  Murderess  Manning  were  not  both 
unusually  stout  people  ?  Whether  hired  nurses,  proverbially  as 
cruel  a  set  of  women  as  arc  to  be  fouud  in  all  England,  were  not, 


THE    WOMxVN    IN    WHITE.  191 

for  the  most  part,  also  as  fat  a  set  of  women  as  are  to  be  found  in  all 
England  ? — and  so  on,  through  dozens  of  other  examples,  modern 
and  ancient,  native  and  foreign,  high  and  low.  Holding  these 
strong  opinions  on  the  subject  with  might  and  main,  as  I  do  at  this 
moment,  here,  nevertheless,  is  Count  Fosco,  as  fat  as  Henry  the 
Eighth  himself,  established  in  my  favor  at  one  day's  notice,  without 
let  or  hinderance  from  his  own  odious  corpulence.  Marvelous  in- 
deed ! 

Is  it  his  face  that  has  recommended  him  ? 

It  may  be  his  face.  He  is  a  most  remarkable  likeness,  on  a  large 
scale,  of  the  Great  Napoleon.  His  features  have  Napoleon's  mag- 
nificent regularity  :  his  expression  recalls  the  grandly  calm,  immov- 
able power  of  the  Great  Soldier's  face.  This  striking  resemblance 
certainly  impressed  me,  to  begin  with ;  but  there  is  something  in 
him  besides  the  resemblance,  which  has  impressed  me  more.  I 
think  the  influence  I  am  now  trying  to  find,  is  in  his  eyes.  They 
are  the  most  unfathomable  gray  eyes  I  ever  saw ;  and  they  have  at 
times  a  cold,  clear,  beautiful,  irresistible  glitter  in  them,  which  forces 
me  to  look  at  him,  and  yet  causes  me  sensations,  when  I  do  look, 
which  I  would  rather  not  feel.  Other  parts  of  his  face  and  head 
have  their  strange  peculiarities.  His  complexion,  for  instance,  has 
a  singular  sallow-fairness,  so  much  at  variance  with  the  dark-brown 
color  of  his  hair  that  I  suspect  the  hair  of  being  a  wig  ;  and  his  fice, 
closely  shaven  all  over,  is  smoother  and  freer  from  all  marks  and 
wrinkles  than  mine,  though  (according  to  Sir  Percival's  account  of 
him)  he  is  close  on  sixty  years  of  age.  But  these  are  not  the  promi- 
nent personal  characteristics  which  distinguish  him,  to  my  mind, 
from  all  the  other  men  I  have  ever  seen.  The  marked  peculiarity 
which  singles  him  out  from  the  rank  and  file  of  humanity,  lies  en- 
tirely, so  fiir  as  I  can  tell  at  present,  in  the  extraordinary  expression 
and  extraordinary  power  of  his  eyes. 

His  manner,  and  his  command  of  our  language,  may  also  have  as- 
sisted him,  in  some  degree,  to  establish  himself  in  my  good  opinion. 
He  has  that  quiet  deference,  that  look  of  pleased,  attentive  interest, 
in  listening  to  a  woman,  and  that  secret  gentleness  in  his  voice,  in 
speaking  to  a  woman,  which,  say  what  we  may,  we  can  none  of  us 
resist.  Here,  too,  his  unusual  command  of  the  English  language 
necessarily  helps  him.  I  had  often  heard  of  the  extraordinary  apti- 
tude which  many  Italians  show  in  mastering  our  strong,  hard, 
Northern  speech ;  but,  until  I  saw  Count  Fosco,  I  had  never  sup- 
posed it  possible  that  any  foreigner  could  have  spoken  English  as 
he  speaks  it.  There  are  times  when  it  is  almost  impossible  to  de- 
tect, by  his  accent,  that  he  is  not  a  countryman  of  our  own  ;  and,  as 
for  fluency,  there  are  very  few  born  Englishmen  who  can  talk  with 
aa  few  stoppages  and  repetitions  as  the  Count.     lie  may  construct 


192  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

liis  sentences,  more  or  less,  in  the  foreign  way  ;  but  1  have  never  yet 
Ijeard  him  use  a  wrong  expression,  or  hesitate  for  a  moment  in  his 
choice  of  a  word. 

All  the  smallest  characteristics  of  this  strange  man  have  some- 
thing strikingly  original  and  perplexingly  contradictory  in  them. 
Fut  as  he  is,  and  old  as  he  is,  his  movements  are  astonishingly  light 
and  easy.  He  is  as  noiseless  in  a  room  as  any  of  us  women  ;  and, 
more  than  that,  with  all  his  look  of  unmistakable  mental  firmness 
and  power,  he  is  as  nervously  sensitive  as  the  weakest  of  us.  He 
starts  at  chance  noises  as  inveterately  as  Laura  herself.  He  winced 
and  slmddered  yesterday,  when  Sir  Percival  beat  one  of  the  span- 
iels, so  that  I  felt  ashamed  of  my  own  want  of  tenderness  and  sensi- 
bility, by  comparison  with  the  Count. 

The  relation  of  this  last  incident  reminds  me  of  one  of  his  most 
curious  peculiarities,  which  I  have  not  yet  mentioned — his  extraor- 
dinary fondness  for  pet  animals. 

Some  of  tliese  he  has  left  on  the  Continent,  but  he  has  brought 
with  him  to  this  house  a  cockatoo,  two  canary-birds,  and  a  whole 
family  of  white  mice.  He  attends  to  all  the  necessities  of  these 
strange  favorites  himself,  and  he  has  taught  the  creatures  to  be  sur- 
prisingly fond  of  him  and  familiar  with  him.  The  cockatoo,  a  most 
vicious  and  treacherous  bird  toward  every  one  else,  absolutely  seems 
to  love  him.  When  he  lets  it  out  of  its  cage,  it  hops  on  to  his  knee, 
and  claws  its  way  up  his  great  big  body,  and  rubs  its  top-knot  against 
his  sallow  double  chin  in  the  most  caressing  manner  imaginable. 
He  has  only  to  set  the  doors  of  the  canaries'  cages  open,  and  to  call 
them ;  and  the  pretty  little  cleverly-trained  creatures  perch  fearless- 
ly on  his  hand,  mount  his  fjit  outstretched  fingers  one  by  one,  when 
he  tells  them  to  ''go  up  stairs,"  and  sing  together  as  if  they  would 
burst  their  throats  with  delight  when  they  get  to  the  top  finger. 
His  white  mice  live  in  a  little  pagoda  of  gayly-painted  wire-work, 
designed  and  made  by  himself  They  are  almost  as  tame  as  the 
canaries,  and  they  are  peqietually  let  out,  like  the  canaries.  They 
crawl  all  over  him,  popping  in  and  out  of  his  waistcoat,  and  sitting 
in  couples,  white  as  snow,  on  his  capacious  shoulders.  He  seems  to 
be  even  fonder  of  his  mice  than  of  his  other  pets,  smiles  at  them, 
and  kisses  them,  and  calls  them  by  all  sorts  of  endearing  names. 
If  it  be  possible  to  suppose  an  Englishman  with  any  taste  for  such 
childish  interests  and  amusements  as  these,  that  Englishman  would 
certainly  feel  rather  ashamed  of  them,  and  would  be  anxious  to  apol- 
ogize for  them,  in  the  company  of  grown-up  people.  But  the  Count, 
apparently,  sees  nothing  ridiculous  in  the  amazing  contrast  between 
his  colossal  self  and  his  frail  little  pets.  He  would  blandly  kiss  his 
white  mice,  and  twitter  to  his  canary-birds,  amidst  an  assembly  of 
ICnglish  fox-hunters,  and  would  only  pity  them  as  barbarians  wlien 
tli'y  were  all  laughing  their  loudest  *t  hiui. 


COUNT   FOSCO   AND   THE    DOG. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  195 

It  seems  hardly  credible  while  I  am  writing  it  down,  but  it  is  cer- 
tainly true,  that  this  same  man,  who  has  all  the  fondness  of  an  old 
maid  for  his  cockatoo,  and  all  the  siiiall  dexterities  of  an  organ-boy 
in  managing  his  white  mice,  can  talk,  when  any  thing  happens  to 
rouse  him,  with  a  daring  independence  of  thought,  a  knowledge  of 
books  in  ever\^  language,  and  an  experience  of  society  in  half  the 
capitals  of  Europe,  which  would  make  him  the  prominent  person- 
age of  any  assembly  in  the  civilized  world.  This  trainer  of  canary- 
birds,  this  arcliitect  of  a  pagoda  for  white  mice,  is  (as  Sir  Percival 
himself  has  told  me)  one  of  the  fii-st  experimental  chemists  living, 
and  has  discovered,  among  other  wonderful  inventions,  a  means  of 
petrifying  the  l^ody  after  death,  so  as  to  preserve  it,  as  hard  as  mar- 
ble, to  the  end  of  time.  This  fat,  indolent,  elderly  man,  whose  nerves 
are  so  finely  strung  that  he  starts  at  chance  noises,  and  winces  when 
he  sees  a  house-spaniel  get  a  vv'hij^ping,  went  into  the  stable-yard  on 
the  morning  after  his  arrival,  and  put  his  hand  on  the  head  of  a 
chained  blood-hound — a  beast  so  savage  that  the  very  groom  who 
feeds  him  keeps  out  of  his  reach.  His  wife  and  I  were  present,  and 
I  shall  not  forget  the  scene  that  followed,  short  as  it  was. 

"  JVIind  that  dog,  sir,"  said  the  groom ;  "  he  flies  at  every  body  I" 
"  He  does  that,  my  friend,"  replied  the  Count,  quietly,  "because  ev- 
ery body  is  afi-aid  of  him.  Let  us  see  if  he  flies  at  mey  And  he 
laid  his  plump,  yellow-wliite  fingers,  on  which  the  canary-birds  had 
Ijeen  perching  ten  minutes  before,  upon  the  formidable  brute's  head, 
and  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  "  You  big  dogs  are  all  cow- 
ards," he  said,  addressing  the  animal  contemptuously,  with  his  face 
and  the  dog's  within  an  inch  of  each  other.  '*  You  would  kill  a 
poor  cat,  you  infernal  coward.  You  would  fly  at  a  starving  beggar, 
you  infernal  coward.  Any  thing  that  you  can  surprise  unawares — 
any  thing  that  is  afraid  of  your  big  body,  and  your  wicked  white 
teeth,  and  your  slobbering,  blood-thirsty  mouth,  is  the  thing  you 
like  to  fly  at.  You  could  throttle  me  at  this  moment,  you  mean, 
miserable  bully;  and  you  daren't  so  much  as  look  me  in  the  face, 
because  I'm  not  afraid  of  you.  Will  you  think  better  of  it,  and  try 
your  teeth  in  my  fat  neck  ?  Bah !  not  you  I"  He  turned  away, 
laughing  at  the  astonishment  of  the  men  in  the  yard ;  and  the  dog 
crept  back  meekly  to  his  kennel.  "Ah  I  my  nice  waistcoat!"  he 
said,  pathetically.  "  I  am  sorry  I  came  here.  Some  of  that  brute's 
slobber  has  got  on  my  pretty  clean  waistcoat."  Those  words  ex- 
press another  of  his  incomprehensible  oddities.  He  is  as  fond  of 
fine  clothes  as  the  veriest  fool  in  existence ;  and  has  appeared  in 
four  magnificent  waistcoats  already — all  of  light,  garish  colors,  and 
all  immensely  large,  even  for  him — in  the  two  days  of  his  residence 
at  Blackwater  Park. 

His  tact  and  cleverness  in  small  things  are  quite  as  noticeable  as 


196  THE    AVOMAN    IN    WIIITK. 

the  sinji^uhir  inconsistencies  in  liis  cliaracter,  and  the  childish  triv- 
iality of  his  ordinary  tastes  and  pursuits, 

I  can  see  already  that  he  means  to  live  on  excellent  terms  with 
all  of  us  during  the  period  of  his  sojourn  in  this  place.  He  has  ev- 
idently discovered  that  Laura  secretly  dislikes  him  (she  confessed 
as  much  to  me,  when  I  pressed  her  on  the  subject) — but  he  has  also 
found  out  that  she  is  extravagantly  fond  of  flowers.  Whenever  she 
wants  a  nosegay,  he  has  got  one  to  give  her,  gathered  and  arranged 
by  himself;  and,  greatly  to  my  amusement,  he  is  always  cunningly 
provided  with  a  duplicate,  composed  of  exactly  the  same  flowers, 
grouped  in  exactly  the  same  way,  to  appease  his  icily  jealous  wife, 
before  she  can  so  much  as  think  herself  aggrieved.  His  mauage- 
ment  of  the  Countess  (in  public)  is  a  sight  to  see.  He  bows  to  her ; 
he  habitually  addresses  her  as  "  my  angel ;"  he  carries  his  canaries 
to  pay  her  little  visits  on  his  fingers,  and  to  sing  to  her ;  he  kisses 
her  hand  when  she  gives  him  his  cigarettes ;  he  presents  her  with 
sugar-plums  in  return,  which  he  puts  into  her  mouth  playfully,  irom 
a  box  in  his  pocket.  The  rod  of  iron  with  which  he  rules  her  nev- 
er appears  in  company — it  is  a  private  rod,  and  is  always  kept  up 
stairs. 

His  method  of  recommending  himself  to  Tne  is  enrirely  diflrent. 
He  flatters  my  vanity,  by  talking  to  me  as  seriously  and  sensibly  as 
if  I  was  a  man.  Yes  I  I  can  find  him  out  when  I  am  away  from  him ; 
I  know  he  flattei's  my  vanity,  when  I  think  of  him  up  here,  in  my 
own  room — and  yet,  when  I  go  down  stairs,  and  get  into  his  com- 
pany again,  he  will  blind  me  again,  and  I  shall  be  flattered  again, 
just  as  if  I  had  never  found  him  out  at  all !  He  can  manage  me  as 
he  manages  his  wife  and  Laura,  as  he  managed  the  blood-hcund  in 
tlie  stable-yard,  as  he  manages  Sir  Percival  himself,  every  hour  in  the 
l\  day,  "  My  good  Percival !  how^  I  like  your  rougli  English  humor  !'* 
^*N^"  My  good  Percival !  how  I  enjoy  your  solid  English  sense  I"  He 
puts  the  rudest  remarks  Sir  Percival  can  make  on  his  efitminate 
tastes  and  amusements  quietly  away  from  him  in  that  manner — al 
wfvys  calling  the  baronet  by  his  Christian  name  ;  smiling  at  him  with 
the  calmest  superiority ;  patting  him  on  the  shoulder ;  and  bearing 
with  him  benignantly,  as  a  good-humored  fiither  bears  with  a  way- 
ward son. 

The  interest  which  I  really  can  not  help  feeling  in  this  strangely 
original  man  has  led  me  to  question  Sir  Percival  about  his  past  life. 
Sir  Percival  either  knows  little,  or  will  tell  me  little,  about  it.  He 
and  the  Count  first  met  many  years  ago,  at  Rome,  under  the  danger- 
ous circumstances  to  which  I  have  alluded  elsewhere.  Since  that 
time  they  have  been  perpetually  together  in  London,  in  Paris,  and 
in  Vienna  —  but  never  in  Italy  again;  the  Count  having,  oddly 
enough,  not  crossed  the  frontiers  of  his  native  country  for  years  past 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  197 

Perhaps  lie  has  been  made  the  victim  of  some  political  persecu- 
tion ?  At  all  events,  he  seems  to  be  patriotically  anxious  not  to  lose 
sight  of  any  of  his  own  countrymen  who  may  happen  to  be  in  En- 
gland. On  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  he  asked  how  far  we  were 
from  the  nearest  town,  and  whether  we  knew  of  any  Italian  gentle- 
men who  might  happen  to  be  settled  there.  He  is  certainly  in  cor- 
respondence with  people  on  the  Continent,  for  his  letters  have  all 
sorts  of  odd  stamps  on  them ;  and  I  saw  one  for  him  this  morn- 
ing, waiting  in  his  place  at  the  breakfast -table,  with  a  huge  official- 
looking  seal  on  it.  Perhaps  he  is  in  correspondence  with  his  Gov- 
ernment ?  And  yet  that  is  hardly  to  be  reconciled,  either,  with  my 
£>ther  idea  that  he  may  be  a  political  exile. 

How  much  I  seem  to  have  written  about  Count  Fosco !  And 
what  does  it  all  amount  to  ? — as  poor,  dear  Mr.  Gilmore  would  ask, 
in  his  impenetrable,  business-like  way.  I  can  only  repeat  that  I  do 
assuredly  feel,  even  on  this  short  acquaintance,  a  strange,  half-will- 
ing, half-unwilling  Kking  for  the  Count.  He  seems  to  have  estab- 
lished over  me  the  same  sort  of  ascendency  which  he  has  evidently 
gained  over  Sir  Percival.  Free,  and  even  rude,  as  he  may  occasion- 
ally be  in  his  manner  toward  his  fat  Mend,  Sir  Percival  is  neverthe- 
less afraid,  as  I  can  plainly  see,  of  giving  any  serious  offense  to  the 
Count.  I  wonder  whether  I  am  afraid,  too  ?  I  certainly  never  saw 
a  man,  in  all  my  experience,  whom  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  have  for 
an  enemy.  Is  this  because  I  like  him,  or  because  I  am  afraid  of  him  ? 
Chi  sa? — as  Count  Fosco  might  say  in  his  own  language.  Who 
knows  ? 

June  IQtTi. — Something  to  chronicle,  to-day,  besides  my  own  ideas 
and  impressions.  A  visitor  has  arrived — quite  unknown  to  Laura 
and  to  me,  and,  apparently,  quite  unexpected  by  Sir  Percival. 

We  were  all  at  lunch,  in  the  room  with  the  new  French  win- 
dows that  open  into  the  veranda;  and  the  Count  (who  devours 
pastry  as  I  have  never  yet  seen  ft  devoured  by  any  human  beings 
but  girls  set  boarding-schools)  had  just  amused  us  by  asking  grave- 
ly for  his  fourth  tart — when  the  servant  entered,  to  announce  the 
visitor. 

"  Mr.  Merriman  has  just  come.  Sir  Percival,  and  wishes  to  see  you 
immediately." 

Sir  Percival  started,  and  looked  at  the  man,  with  an  expression  of 
angry  alarm. 

"Mr.  Merriman  ?"  he  repeated,  as  if  he  thought  his  own  ears  must 
have  deceived  him, 

"  Yes,  Sir  Percival :  Mr.  Merriman,  from  London." 

"  Where  is  he  ?" 

''  In  the  library,  Sir  Percival." 


198  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

He  left  the  table  the  instant  the  last  answer  was  f^iven,  and  hur- 
ried out  of  the  room  without  saying  a  word  to  any  of  us. 

"  Wlio  is  Mr.  Merriman  ?''  asked  Laura,  appealing  to  me. 

"  I  have  not  the  least  idea,"  was  all  I  could  say  in  reply. 

The  Count  had  finished  his  fourth  tart,  and  had  gone  to  a  side- 
table  to  look  after  his  vicious  cockatoo.  He  turned  round  to  us, 
with  the  bird  perched  on  his  shoulder. 

''  Mr.  Meniman  is  Sir  Pcrcival's  solicitor,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Sir  PercivaFs  solicitor.  It  was  a  perfectly  straightforward  an- 
swer to  Laura's  question ;  and  yet,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was 
not  Siitisfactory.  If  ]Mr.  Merriman  had  l>een  specially  sent  for  by  his 
client,  there  would  have  l^een  nothing  very  wonderful  in  his  leaving 
town  to  obey  the  summons.  But  when  a  lawyer  travels  from  Lon- 
don to  Hampshire  without  being  sent  for,  and  when  his  arrival  at  a 
gentleman's  house  seriously  startles  the  gentleman  himself,  it  may  lr3 
safely  taken  for  granted  that  the  legal  visitor  is  the  bearer  of  some 
very  important  and  very  unexp>ected  news — news  which  may  be 
either  very  good  or  very  bad,  but  which  can  not,  in  either  case,  be 
of  the  common,  every-day  kind. 

Laura  and  I  sat  silent  at  the  table,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or 
more,  wondering  uneasily  wliat  had  happened,  and  waiting  for  the 
chance  of  Sir  Percival's  speedy  return.  There  were  no  signs  of  his 
return  ;  and  we  rose  to  leave  the  room. 

The  Count,  attentive  as  usual,  advanced  from  the  corner  in  which 
he  had  l>een  feeding  his  cockatoo,  wdth  the  bird  still  perched  on  his 
shoulder,  and  opened  the  door  for  us.  Laura  and  Madame  Fosco 
went  out  first.  Just  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  following  them,  he 
made  a  sign  with  his  hand,  and  spoke  to  me  before  I  passed  him,  in 
the  oddest  manner. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  quietly  answering  the  unexpressed  idea  at  that 
moment  in  my  mind,  as  if  I  had  plainly  confided  it  to  him  in  so 
many  words — "  yes.  Miss  Halcombe,  something  lias  happened." 

I  w^as  on  the  point  of  answering, ''  I  never  said  so."  But  the  vi- 
cious cockatoo  ruifled  his  clipped  wings,  and  gave  a  screech  that 
set  all  my  nerves  on  edge  in  an  instant,  and  made  me  only  too  glad 
to  get  out  of  the  room. 

I  joined  Laura  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  The  thought  in  her  mind 
was  the  same  as  the  thought  in  mine,  which  Count  Fosco  had  sur- 
prised— and  when  she  spoke,  her  words  were  almost  the  echo  of  his. 
She,  too,  said  to  me,  secretly,  that  she  was  afraid  something  had 
happened. 

m. 

June  IQttli. — I  have  a  few  lines  more  to  add  to  this  day's  entry  be- 
fore I  go  to  bed  to-night. 

About  two  hours  after  Sir  Pcrcival  rose  from  the  lunchcon-tablo 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  199 

to  receive  his  solicitor,  ]\[r.  Merriman,  in  the  library,  I  left  my  room, 
alone,  to  take  a  walk  in  the  plantations.  Just  as  I  was  at  the  end 
of  the  landing-,  tlie  library  door  opened,  and  the  two  gentlemen 
came  out.  Thinking  it  best  not  to  disturb  them  by  appearing  on 
the  stairs,  I  resolved  to  defer  going  down  till  they  had  crossed  the 
hall.  Although  they  spoke  to  each  other  in  guarded  tones,  their 
Vv'ords  were  pronounced  with  sufficient  distinctness  of  utterance  to 
reach  my  ears. 

"  Make  your  mind  easy.  Sir  Percival,"  I  heard  the  lawyer  say- 
''  It  all  rests  with  Lady  Glyde." 

I  had  turned  to  go  back  to  my  own  room,  for  a  minute  or  two ; 
but  the  sound  of  Laura's  name,  on  the  lijDs  of  a  stranger,  stopped  me 
instantly.  I  dare  say  it  was  very  wrong  and  very  discreditable  to 
listen — but  where  is  the  woman,  in  the  whole  range  of  our  sex,  wdio 
can  regulate  her  actions  by  the  abstract  principles  of  honor,  when 
those  principles  point  one  way,  and  when  her  affections,  and  the  in- 
terests which  grow  out  of  them,  point  the  other  ? 

I  listened ;  and,  under  similar  circumstances,  I  would  listen  again 
— yes  I  wdth  my  ear  at  the  key-hole,  if  I  could  not  possibly  manage 
it  in  any  other  way. 

"  You  quite  understand,  Sir  Percival  ?"  the  law^yer  went  on. 
"  Lady  Glyde  is  to  sign  her  name  in  the  presence  of  a  witness — or 
of  two  witnesses,  if  you  wish  to  be  particularly  careful — and  is  then 
to  put  her  finger  on  the  seal,  and  say, '  I  deliver  this  as  my  act  and 
deed.'  If  that  is  done  in  a  week's  time,  the  arrangement  will  be 
perfectly  successful,  and  the  anxiety  will  be  all  over.     If  not — " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  if  not  ?'  "  asked  Sir  Percival,  angrily. 
"  If  the  thing  must  be  done,  it  shall  be  done.  I  25i'omise  you  that, 
Merriman." 

"  Just  so.  Sir  Percival — just  so ;  but  there  are  two  alternatives  in 
all  transactions ;  and  we  lawyers  like  to  look  both  of  them  in  the 
face  boldly.  If  through  any  extraordinary  circumstance  the  arrange- 
ment should  not  be  made,  I  think  I  may  be  able  to  get  the  parties 
to  accept  bills  at  three  months.  But  how  the  money  is  to  be  raised 
when  the  bills  fall  due — " 

"  D — n  the  bills  !  The  money  is  only  to  be  got  in  one  way  ;  and 
in  the  way,  I  tell  you  again,  it  shall  be  got.  Take  a  glass  of  wine, 
Merriman,  before  you  go." 

"  Much  obliged,  Sir  Percival ;  I  have  not  a  moment  to  lose  if  I  am 
to  catch  the  up  train.  You  will  let  me  know  as  soon  as  the  arrange- 
ment is  complete  ?  and  you  will  not  forget  the  caution  I  recom- 
mended— " 

"  Of  course  I  won't.  There's  the  dog-cart  at  the  door  for  you. 
My  groom  will  get  you  to  the  station  in  no  time.  Benjamin,  drive 
like  mad  I      Jump  in.     If  Mr.  Merriman  misses  the  train,  you  lose 


200  THE    WOMAN    IN    WIIITP:. 

your  ])laco.  Hold  fast,  Mcrriman,  and  if  you  aro  upset,  trust  to  the 
devil  to  save  his  own."  With  that  partin*^  benediction,  the  ])aronet 
turned  about,  and  walked  back  to  the  library. 

I  had  not  heard  much  ;  but  the  little  that  had  reached  my  ears 
was  enough  to  make  me  feel  uneas}'.  The  "  something"  that  "had 
liapj)ened  "  was  but  too  plainly  a  serious  money  embarrassment ; 
and  Sir  Percivars  relief  from  it  depended  upon  Laura.  The  pros- 
pect of  seeing  her  involved  in  her  husband's  secret  difficulties  tilled 
me  with  dismay,  exaggerated,  no  doubt,  by  my  ignorance  of  business 
and  my  settled  distrust  of  Sir  Pcrcival.  Instead  of  going  out,  as  I 
proposed,  I  went  back  immediately  to  Laura's  room  to  tell  her  what 
I  had  heard. 

She  received  my  bad  news  so  composedly  as  to  surprise  me.  She 
evidently  knows  more  of  her  husband's  character  and  her  husband's 
embarrassments  than  I  have  suspected  up  to  this  time. 

"  I  feared  as  much,"  she  said,  ''  when  I  heard  of  that  strange  gen- 
tleman who  called,  and  declined  to  leave  his  name." 

"  Who  do  you  think  the  gentleman  was,  then  ?"  I  asked. 

"Some  person  who  has  heavy  claims  on  Sir  Percival,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  and  who  has  been  the  cause  of  Mr.  Merriman's  visit  here 
to-day." 

"  Do  you  know  any  thing  about  those  claims  ?" 

"  No ;  I  know  no  particulars." 

"  You  will  sign  nothing,  Laura,  without  first  looking  at  it  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  Marian.  Whatever  I  can  harmlesslj^  and  honest- 
ly do  to  help  him  I  will  do — for  the  sake  of  making  your  life  and 
mine,  love,  as  easy  and  as  happy  as  possible.  But  I  will  do  nothing, 
ignorantly,  which  we  might,  one  day,  have  reason  to  feel  ashamed 
of.  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it  now.  You  have  got  your  hat  on 
- — suppose  we  go  and  dream  away  the  afternoon  in  the  grounds  ?" 

On  leaving  the  house  we  directed  our  steps  to  the  nearest  shade. 

As  we  passed  an  open  space  among  the  trees  in  front  of  the  house, 
there  was  Count  Fosco,  slowly  walking  backward  and  forward  on 
the  grass,  sunning  himself  in  the  full  blaze  of  the  hot  June  after- 
noon. He  had  a  broad  straw  hat  on,  with  a  violet-colored  ribbon 
round  it.  A  blue  blouse,  with  profuse  white  fancy-work  over  the 
bosom,  covered  his  prodigious  body,  and  w^as  girt  about  the  place 
where  his  waist  might  once  have  been,  with  a  broad,  scarlet  leather 
belt.  Nankeen  trowsers,  displaying  more  white  fancy-work  over 
the  ankles,  and  purple  morocco  slippers,  adorned  his  lower  extremi- 
ties. He  was  singing  Figaro's  fjimous  song  in  the  Barber  of  Seville, 
with  that  crisply  fluent  vocalization  which  is  never  heard  from  any 
other  than  an  Italian  throat ;  accompanying  himself  on  the  concer- 
tina, which  he  played  with  ecstatic  throwings-up  of  his  arms,  and 
graceful  twistings  and  turnings  of  his  head,  like  a  fat  St.  Cecilia 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  201 

masqiieradin^]:  in  male  attire.  "Figaro  qua  1  Figaro  la  I  Figaro  su! 
Figaro  giu  1"  sang  the  Count,  jauntily  tossing  up  the  concertina  at 
arms-length,  and  bowing  to  us,  on  one  side  of  the  instrument,  with 
the  air}'  grace  and  elegance  of  Figaro  himself  at  twenty  years  of 
age. 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  Laura,  that  man  knows  something  of  Sir 
Percivars  embarrassments,"'  I  said,  as  we  returned  the  Count's  salu- 
tation from  a  safe  distance. 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?"  she  asked. 

"■  How  should  he  have  known,  otherwise,  that  Mr.  ]Merriman  was 
Sir  Percival's  solicitor  ?"  I  rejoined.  "  Besides,  when  I  followed 
you  out  of  the  luncheon-room,  he  told  me,  without  a  single  word 
of  inquiry  on  my  part,  that  something  had  happened.  Depend 
upon  it,  he  knows  more  than  we  do." 

'*  Don't  ask  him  any  questions,  if  he  does.  Don't  take  him  into 
our  confidence  I" 

'•  You  seem  to  dislike  him,  Laura,  in  a  very  determined  manner. 
What  has  he  said  or  done  to  justify  you  ?" 

'-  Nothing,  Marian.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  all  kindness  and  at- 
tention on  our  journey  home,  and  he  several  times  checked  Sir  Per- 
cival's  outbreaks  of  temper,  in  the  most  considerate  manner  toward 
me.  Perhaps  I  dislike  him  because  he  has  so  much  more  power 
over  my  husband  than  I  have.  Perhaps  it  hurts  my  pride  to  be  un- 
der any  obligations  to  his  interference.  All  I  know  is,  that  I  do 
dislike  him.'" 

The  rest  of  the  day  and  evening  passed  quietly  enough.  The 
Count  and  I  played  at  chess.  For  the  first  two  games  he  politely 
allowed  me  to  conquer  him ;  and  then,  when  he  saw  that  I  had 
found  him  out,  begged  my  pardon,  and,  at  the  third  game,  check- 
mated me  in  ten  minutes.  Sir  Percival  never  once  referred,  all 
through  the  evening,  to  the  lawyer's  visit.  But  either  that  event, 
or  something  else,  had  produced  a  singular  alteration  for  the  better 
in  him.  He  was  as  polite  and  agreeable  to  all  of  us  as  he  used  to 
be  in  the  days  of  his  probation  at  Limmeridge ;  and  he  was  so 
amazingly  attentive  and  kind  to  his  wife  that  even  icy  Madame 
Fosco  was  roused  into  looking  at  him  with  a  grave  surprise. 
What  does  this  mean  ?  I  think  I  can  guess ;  I  am  afraid  Laura 
can  guess ;  and  I  am  sure  Count  Fosco  knows.  I  caught  Sir  Perci- 
val looking  at  him  for  approval  more  than  once  in  the  course  of  the 
evening. 

June  17tJi. — A  day  of  events.  I  most  fei-vently  hope  I  may  not 
have  to  add,  a  day  of  disasters  as  well. 

Sir  Percival  was  as  silent  at  breakfast  as  he  had  been  the  evening 
before,  on  the  subject  of  the  mysterious  "  arrangement "  fas  the  law 

9* 


202  THE    WOMAN    IN    V/IIITE. 

yor  called  it),  which  is  hanging  over  our  heads.  An  hour  afterward, 
liowevcr,  he  suddenly  entered  the  morning-room,  where  his  wife  and 
I  were  waiting,  with  our  hats  on,  for  Madame  Fosco  to  join  us,  and 
inquired  for  the  Count. 

'"■  We  expect  to  see  him  here  directly,"  I  said. 

"  The  fact  is,"  Sir  Percival  went  on,  walking  nervously  about  the 
room, "  I  want  Fosco  and  his  wife  in  the  liljrary,  for  a  mere  business 
formality ;  and  I  want  you  there,  Laura,  for  a  minute,  too."  He 
stopped,  and  appeared  to  notice,  for  the  first  time,  that  we  were  in 
our  walking  costume.  "  Have  you  just  come  in  ?"  he  asked,  "  or 
were  you  just  going  out  V 

*'  We  were  all  thinking  of  going  to  the  lake  this  morning,"  said 
Laura.     "  But  if  you  have  ary  other  arrangement  to  propose — " 

"  No,  no,"  he  answered,  hastily.  "  My  arrangement  can  wait.  Af- 
ter lunch  will  do  as  well  for  it  as  after  breakfast.  All  going  to  the 
lake,  eh  ?  A  good  idea.  Let's  have  an  idle  morning ;  I'll  be  one 
of  the  party." 

There  w\as  no  mistaking  his  manner,  even  if  it  had  been  possible 
to  mistake  the  uncharacteristic  readiness  which  his  words  express- 
ed to  submit  his  own  plans  and  projects  to  the  convenience  of  oth- 
ers. He  WHS  evidently  relieved  at  finding  any  excuse  for  delaying 
the  business  formality  in  the  library,  to  which  his  own  words  had 
referred.  My  heart  sank  within  me  as  I  drew  the  inevitable  infer- 
ence. 

The  Count  and  his  wife  joined  us  at  that  moment.  The  lady  had 
her  husband's  embroidered  tobacco-pouch,  and  her  store  of  paper 
in  her  hand,  for  the  manufacture  of  the  eternal  cigarettes.  The 
gentleman,  dressed,  as  usual,  in  his  blouse  and  straw  hat,  carried  the 
gay  little  pagoda-cage,  with  his  darling  white  mice  in  it,  and  smiled 
on  them  and  on  us,  with  a  bland  amiability  which  it  was  impossible 
to  resist. 

"  With  your  kind  permission,"  said  the  Count,  ''  I  will  take  my 
small  family  here — my  poor-lit tle-harmless-prettj^-Mouseys,  out  for 
an  airing  along  with  us.  There  are  dogs  about  the  house,  and  shall 
I  leave  my  forlorn  white  children  at  the  mercies  of  the  dogs  ?  Ah, 
never !" 

He  chirruped  paternally  at  his  small  white  children  through  the 
bars  of  the  pagoda ;  and  we  all  left  the  house  for  the  lake. 

In  the  plantation.  Sir  Percival  strayed  away  from  us.  It  seems  to 
fce  part  of  his  restless  disposition  always  to  separate  himself  from  his 
companions  on  these  occasions,  and  always  to  occupy  himself,  when 
he  is  alone,  in  cutting  new  walking-sticks  for  his  own  use.  The 
mere  act  of  cutting  and  lopping,  at  hazard,  appears  to  please  him. 
He  has  filled  the  house  with  walking-sticks  of  his  own  making,  not 
one  of  which  he  ever  takes  up  for  a  second  time.     When  they  have 


THE    WOilAN    I.V    WHITE.  203 

been  mce  used  his  interest  in  them  is  all  exhausted,  and  he  thinks 
of  notiiing  but  going  on  and  making  more. 

At  the  old  boat-house  he  joined  us  again.  I  will  put  down  the 
conversation  that  ensued,  when  we  were  all  settled  in  our  places, 
exactly  as  it  passed.  It  is  an  important  conversation,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  for  it  has  seriously  disposed  me  to  distrust  the  influence 
which  Count  Fosco  lias  exercised  over  my  thoughts  and  feelings, 
and  to  resist  it,  for  the  future,  as  resolutely  as  I  can. 

The  boat-house  was  large  enough  to  hold  us  all ;  but  Sir  Percivai 
remained  outside,  trimming  the  last  new  stick  with  his  pocket-axe. 
We  three  women  found  plenty  of  room  on  the  large  seat.  Laura 
took  her  work,  and  Madame  Fosco  began  her  cigarettes.  I,  as  usual, 
liad  nothing  to  do.  My  hands  always  were,  and  always  will  be,  as 
awkward  as  a  man's.  The  Count  good-humoredly  took  a  stool  many 
sizes  too  small  for  him,  and  balanced  himself  on  it  with  his  back 
against  the  side  of  the  shed,  which  creaked  and  groaned  under  his 
weight.  He  put  the  pagoda-cage  on  his  lap,  and  let  out  the  mice  to 
crawl  over  him  as  usual.  They  are  pretty,  innocent-looking  little 
creatures ;  but  the  sight  of  them,  creeping  about  a  man's  body,  is, 
for  some  reason,  not  pleasant  to  me.  It  excites  a  strange,  responsive 
creeping  in  my  own  nerves  ;  and  suggests  hideous  ideas  of  men  dy- 
ing in  prison,  with  the  crawling  creatures  of  the  dungeon  preying 
on  them  undisturbed. 

The  morning  was  windy  and  cloudy,  and  the  rapid  alternations 
of  shadow  and  sunlight  over  the  waste  of  the  lake  made  the  view 
look  doubly  wild,  weird,  and  gloomy. 

'*  Some  people  call  that  picturesque,"  said  Sir  Percivai,  pointing 
over  the  wide  prospect  with  his  half-linished  walking-stick.  "  I  call 
it  a  blot  on  a  gentleman's  property.  In  my  great-grandfather's  time 
the  lake  flowed  to  this  place.  Look  at  it  now  I  It  is  not  four  feet 
deep  anywhere,  and  it  is  all  puddles  and  pools.  I  wish  I  could  af- 
ford to  drain  it,  and  plant  it  all  over.  My  bailifi"  (a  superstitious  id- 
iot) says  he  is  quite  sure  the  lake  has  a  curse  on  it,  like  the  Dead 
Sea.  What  do  you  think,  Fosco  ?  It  looks  just  the  place  for  a  mur- 
der, doesn't  it  ?" 

'"  My  good  Percivai  1"  remonstrated  the  Count.  ''  What  is  your 
solid  English  sense  thinking  of  ?  The  water  is  too  shallow  to  hide 
the  body ;  and  there  is  sand  everywhere  to  print  off  the  murderer's 
footsteps.  It  is,  upon  the  whole,  the  very  worst  place  for  a  murder 
that  I  ever  set  my  eyes  on," 

''  Humbug  I''  said  Sir  Percivai,  cutting  away  fiercely  at  his  stick. 
"  You  know  what  I  mean.  The  dreary  scenery — the  lonely  situation. 
If  you  choose  to  understand  me,  you  can — if  you  don't  choose,  I  am 
not  going  to  trouble  myself  to  explain  my  meaning." 

"■  And  why  not,"  asked  the  Count,  "  when  your  meaning  can  be 


204  THE    WOMAX    IN    AVIIITE. 

explained  by  any  body  in  two  words  ?  If  a  fool  was  going  to  com- 
mit a  murder,  your  lake  is  the  first  place  he  would  choose  for  it.  If 
a  wise  man  was  going  to  commit  a  murder,  your  lake  is  the  last  place 
he  would  choose  for  it.  Is  that  your  meaning  ?  If  it  is,  there  is  your 
explanation  for  you,  ready  made.  Take  it,  Percival,  with  your  good 
Fosco's  blessing." 

Laura  looked  at  the  Count,  with  her  dislike  for  him  appearing  a 
little  too  plainly  in  her  face.  He  was  so  busy  with  his  mice  that  he 
did  not  notice  her. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  the  lake-view  connected  with  any  thing  so 
horrible  as  the  idea  of  murder,"  she  said.  ''  And  if  Count  Fosco 
must  divide  murderers  into  classes,  I  think  he  has  been  ver\'  unfor- 
tunate in  his  choice  of  expressions.  To  describe  them  as  fools  only, 
seems  like  treating  them  with  an  indulgence  to  which  they  have 
no  claim.  And  to  describe  them  as  wise  men,  sounds  to  me  like  a 
downright  contradiction  in  terms.  I  have  always  heard  that  truly 
wise  men  are  truly  good  men,  and  have  a  horror  of  crime." 

"  My  dear  lady,"  said  the  Count, ''  those  are  admirable  sentiments ; 
and  I  have  seen  them  stated  at  the  tops  of  copy-books."  He  lifted 
one  of  the  white  mice  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  spoke  to  it  in  his 
whimsical  way.  '•  My  pretty  little  smooth  white  rascal,"  he  said, 
''  here  is  a  moral  lesson  for  you.  A  truly  wise  Mouse  is  a  truly  good 
Mouse.  [Mention  that,  if  you  please,  to  your  companions,  and  never 
gnaw  at  the  bars  of  your  cage  again  as  long  as  you  live." 

"  It  is  easy  to  turn  every  thing  into  ridicule,"  said  Laura,  resolute- 
ly ;  '^  but  you  will  not  find  it  quite  so  easy.  Count  Fosco,  to  give  mo 
an  instance  of  a  wise  man  who  has  been  a  great  criminal." 

The  Count  shrugged  his  huge  shoulders,  and  smiled  on  Laura  in 
the  friendliest  manner. 

"  Most  true  1"  he  said.  "  The  fool's  crime  is  the  crime  that  is 
found  out ;  and  the  wise  man's  crime  is  the  crime  that  is  not  found 
out.  If  I  could  give  you  an  instance,  it  would  not  l>e  the  instance 
of  a  wise  man.  Dear  Lady  Glyde,  your  sound  English  common 
sense  has  been  too  much  for  me.  It  is  checkmate  for  me  this  time, 
Miss  Halcombe — ha  ?" 

''  Stand  to  your  guns,  Laura,"  sneered  Sir  Percival,  who  had  been 
listening  in  his  place  at  the  door.  ''  Tell  him,  next,  that  crimes 
cans*  their  own  detection.  There's  another  l)it  of  copy-book  mo- 
rality for  you,  Fosco.  Crimes  cause  their  own  detection.  What  in- 
fernal humb'^'r  I" 

''  I  believe  it  to  be  true,"  said  Laura,  quietly. 

Sir  Percival  burst  out  laughing ;  so  violently,  so  outrageously, 
that  he  quite  startled  us  all — the  Count  more  than  any  of  us. 

"  I  believe  it,  too,"  I  Siiid,  coming  to  Laura's  rescue. 

Sir  Percival,  who  had  been  unaccountably  amused  at  his  wife's 


THE  woMxVX  :x  white.  205 

remark,  was,  just  as  unaccountably,  irritated  by  mine.  He  struck 
the  new  stick  savagely  on  the  sand,  and  walked  away  from  us. 

"  Poor  dear  Percival '.''  cried  Count  Fosco,  looking  after  him  gay- 
ly  :  "  he  is  the  victim  of  English  spleen.  But,  my  dear  Miss  Hal- 
combe,  my  dear  Lady  Glyde,  do  you  really  believe  that  crimes  cause 
their  own  detection?  And  you,  my  angel,"  he  continued,  turning 
to  his  wife,  who  had  not  uttered  a  word  yet,  ''.do  you  think  so 
too  ?" 

''  I  wait  to  be  instructed,"  replied  the  Countess,  in  tones  of  fi-eez- 
ing  reproof,  intended  for  Laura  and  me, ''  before  I  venture  on  giving 
my  opinion  in  the  presence  of  well-informed  men." 

"  Do  you,  indeed  ?"  I  said.  "  I  remember  the  time.  Countess, 
when  you  advocated  the  Rights  of  Women — and  freedom  of  female 
opinion  was  one  of  them." 

"  What  is  your  view  of  the  subject.  Count  ?"  asked  Madame  Fos- 
co, calmly  proceeding  with  her  cigarettes,  and  not  taking  the  least 
notice  of  me. 

The  Count  stroked  one  of  his  white  mice  reflectively  with  his 
chubby  little  finger  before  he  answered. 

"  It  is  truly  wonderful,"  he  said, "  how  easily  Society  can  console 
itself  for  the  worst  of  its  shortcomings  with  a  little  bit  of  clap-trap. 
The  machinery  it  has  set  up  for  the  detection  of  crime  is  miserably 
ineffective  —  and  yet  only  invent  a  moral  epigram,  sajnng  that  it 
works  well,  and  you  blind  every  body  to  its  blunders  from  that  mo- 
ment. Crimes  cause  their  own  detection,  do  they  ?  And  murder 
will  out  (another  moral  epigram),  will  it  ?  Ask  Coroners  who  sit 
at  inquests  in  large  tovv  ns  if  that  is  true.  Lady  Glyde.  Ask  secreta- 
ries of  life-assurance  companies,  if  that  is  true,  Miss  Halcombe.  Read 
your  own  public  journals.  In  the  few  cases  that  get  into  the  news- 
papers, are  there  not  instances  of  slain  bodies  found,  and  no  murder- 
ers ever  discovered  ?  Multiply  the  cases  that  are  reported  by  the 
cases  that  are  not  reported,  and  the  bodies  that  are  found  by  the 
bodies  that  are  not  found ;  and  what  conclusion  do  you  come  to  ? 
This :  That  there  are  foolish  criminals  who  are  discovered,  and 
wise  criminals  who  escape.  The  hiding  of  a  crime,  or  the  detection 
of  a  crime,  what  is  it  ?  A  trial  of  skill  between  the  police  on  one 
side,  and  the  individual  on  the  other.  When  the  criminal  is  a  bru- 
tal, ignorant  fool,  the  police,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  win.  When 
the  criminal  is  a  resolute,  educated,  highly-intelligent  man,  the  po- 
lice, in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  lose.  If  the  police  win,  you  generally 
hear  all  about  it.  If  the  police  lose,  you  generally  hear  nothing. 
And  on  this  tottering  foundation  you  build  up  your  comfortable 
moral  maxim  that  Crime  causes  its  own  detection  !  Yes — all  the 
crime  you  know  of     And  what  of  the  rest  V 

"  Devilish  true,  and  very  well  put,"  cried  a  voice  at  the  entrance 


20G  THE    WOM.vN    IN    WHITE. 

of  the  boat-house.  Sir  Percival  had  recovered  his  equanimity,  and 
had  come  back  while  \ve  were  listening  to  the  Count. 

"  Some  of  it  may  be  true,"  I  said  ;  "  and  all  of  it  may  be  very  well 
put.  But  I  don't  see  why  Count  Fosco  should  celebrate  the  victory 
of  the  criminal  over  society  with  so  much  exultation,  or  why  you, 
Sir  Percival,  should  applaud  him  so  loudly  for  doing  it." 

'^  Do  you  hear  that,  Fosco  ?"  asked  Sir  Percival.  "  Take  my  ad- 
vice, and  make  your  peace  with  your  audience.  Tell  them  Virtue's 
a  tine  thing— they  like  that,  I  can  promise  you." 

The  Count  laughed,  inwardly  and  silently  ;  and  two  of  the  white 
mice  in  his  waistcoat,  alarmed  by  the  internal  convulsion  going 
on  beneath  them,  darted  out  in  a  violent  hurry,  and  scrambled  into 
their  cage  again. 

''  The  ladies,  my  good  Percival,  shall  tell  me  about  virtue,"  he 
said.  "  They  are  better  authorities  than  I  am  ;  for  they  know  what 
virtue  is,  and  I  don't." 

''  You  hear  him  ?"  said  Sir  Percival.     "  Isn't  it  awful  ?" 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  Count,  quietly.  "  I  am  a  citizen  of  the  world, 
and  I  have  met,  in  my  time,  with  so  many  different  sorts  of  virtue, 
that  I  am  puzzled,  in  my  old  age,  to  say  which  is  the  right  sort  and 
which  is  the  wrong.  Here,  in  England,  there  is  one  virtue.  And 
there,  in  China,  there  is  another  virtue.  And  John  Englishman  says 
my  virtue  is  the  genuine  virtue.  And  John  Chinaman  says  my  vir- 
tue is  the  genuine  virtue.  And  I  say  Yes  to  one,  or  No  to  the  oth- 
er, and  am  just  as  much  bewildered  about  it  in  the  case  of  John 
with  the  top-boots  as  I  am  in  the  case  of  John  with  the  pigtail. 
Ah,  nice  little  Mousey  !  come,  kiss  me.  What  is  your  own  private 
notion  of  a  virtuous  man,  my  pret-pret-pretty  ?  A  man  who  keeps 
you  warm,  and  gives  you  plenty  to  eat.  And  a  good  notion,  too, 
for  it  is  intelligible,  at  the  least." 

"  Stay  a  minute.  Count,"  I  interposed.  "Accepting  your  illustra- 
tion, surely  we  have  one  unquestionable  virtue  in  England,  which  is 
wanting  in  China.  The  Chinese  authorities  kill  thousands  of  inno- 
cent people,  on  the  most  frivolous  pretexts.  We,  in  England,  are 
free  from  all  guilt  of  that  kind — we  commit  no  such  dreadful  crime 
— we  abhor  reckless  bloodshed,  wnth  all  our  hearts." 

"  Quite  right,  Marian,"  said  Laura.  "  Well  thought  of,  and  well 
expressed." 

"  Pray  allow  the  Count  to  proceed,"  said  Madame  Fosco,  with 
stem  civility.  "  You  will  find,  young  ladies,  that  he  never  speaks 
without  having  excellent  reasons  for  all  that  he  says." 

'^  Thank  you,  my  angel,"  replied  the  Count.  ''  Have  a  bonbon  ?" 
He  took  out  of  his  pocket  a  pretty  little  inlaid  box,  and  placed  it 
open  on  the  table.  "  Chocolat  a  la  Vanille,"  cried  the  impenetrable 
man,  cheerfullv  rattling  the  sweetmeats  in  the  box,  and  bowing  all 


THE    AVOMAX    IN    AVIIITE.  207 

round.     '•  Offered  by  Fosco  as  an  act  of  homage  to  the  charming 
society." 

''  Be  good  enough  to  go  on,  Count,''  said  hjs  wife,  with  a  spiteful 
reference  to  myself.     "  Oblige  me  by  answering  Miss  Halcombe." 

"  Miss  Halcombe  is  unanswerable,"  replied  the  polite  Italian — 
"  that  is  to  say,  so  far  as  she  goes.  Yes !  I  agree  with  her.  John 
Bull  does  abhor  the  crimes  of  John  Chinaman.  He  is  the  quickest 
old  gentleman  at  finding  out  the  faults  that  are  his  neighbors',  and 
the  slowest  old  gentleman  at  finding  out  the  faults  that  are  his  own, 
who  exists  on  the  fiice  of  creation.  Is  he  so  very  much  better  in  his 
way,  than  the  people  whom  he  condemns  in  their  way  ?  English 
society.  Miss  Halcombe,  is  as  often  the  accomplice,  as  it  is  the  ene- 
my, of  crime.  Yes !  yes  !  Crime  is  in  this  country  what  crime  is 
in  other  countries — a  good  friend  to  a  man  and  to  those  about  him 
as  often  as  it  is  an  enemy.  A  great  rascal  provides  for  his  wife 
and  family.  The  worse  he  is,  the  more  he  makes  them  the  objects 
for  your  sympathy.  He  often  provides,  also,  for  himself  A  profli- 
gate spendthrift  who  is  always  borrowing  money,  will  get  more 
from  his  fi-iends  than  the  rigidly  honest  man  who  only  borrows  of 
them  once,  under  pressure  of  the  direst  want.  In  the  one  case,  the 
friends  will  not  be  at  all  surprised,  and  they  will  give.  In  the  oth- 
er case,  they  will  be  very  much  surprised,  and  they  will  hesitate. 
Is  the  prison  that  Mr.  Scoundrel  lives  in,  at  the  end  of  his  career,  a 
more  uncomfortable  place  than  the  work-house  that  Mr.  Honesty 
lives  in,  at  the  end  of  his  career  ?  When  John-Howard-Philanthro- 
pist wants  'to  relieve  misery,  he  goes  to  find  it  in  prisons,  where 
crime  is  wretched — not  in  huts  and  hovels,  where  virtue  is  wretch- 
ed too.  Who  is  the  English  poet  who  has  won  the  most  universal 
sympathy — who  makes  the  easiest  of  all  subjects  for  pathetic  writ- 
ing and  pathetic  painting?  That  nice  young  person  who  began 
life  with  a  forgery,  and  ended  it  by  a  suicide — your  dear,  romantic, 
interesting  Chatterton.  Which  gets  on  best,  do  you  think,  of  two 
poor  starving  dress-makers — the  woman  who  resists  temptation, 
and  is  honest,  or  the  woman  who  falls  under  temptation,  and  steals  ? 
You  all  know  that  the  stealing  is  the  making  of  that  second  wom- 
an's fortune — it  advertises  her  from  length  to  breadth  of  good-hu- 
mored, charitable  England — and  she  is  relieved,  as  the  breaker  of  a 
commandment,  when  she  would  have  been  left  to  starve,  as  the 
keeper  of  it.  Come  here,  my  jolly  little  Mouse  I  Hey  I  presto  ! 
pass !  I  transform  you,  for  the  time  being,  into  a  respectable  lady. 
Stop  there,  in  the  palm  of  my  great  big  hand,  my  dear,  and  listen. 
You  marry  the  poor  man  whom  you  love.  Mouse  ;  and  one  half  your 
friends  pity,  and  the  other  half  blame  you.  And  now,  on  the  con- 
trary, you  ^11  yourself  for  gold  to  a  man  you  don't  care  for ;  and  all 
your  friends  rejoice  over  you ;    and  a  minister  of  public  worship 


208  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

sanctions  the  base  horror  of  the  vilest  of  all  human  bargains ;  and 
smiles  and  smirks  aflerward  at  your  table,  if  you  are  polite  enough 
to  ask  liim  to  breakfast.  Hey !  presto  I  pass !  Be  a  mouse  again, 
and  squeak.  If  you  continue  to  be  a  lady  much  longer,  I  shall 
have  you  telling  me  that  Society  abhors  crime — and  then.  Mouse,  I 
shall  doubt  if  your  own  eyes  and  cars  are  really  of  any  use  to  you. 
Ah  I  I  am  a  bad  man.  Lady  Glyde,  am  I  not  ?  I  say  what  other  peo- 
ple only  think  ;  and  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world  is  in  a  conspiracy 
to  accept  the  mask  for  the  true  face,  mine  is  the  rash  hand  that  tears 
olf  the  plump  pasteboard,  and  shows  the  bare  bones  beneath.  I 
will  get  up  on  my  big  elephant's  legs,  before  I  do  myself  any  more 
harm  in  your  amiable  estimations — I  will  get  up,  and  take  a  little 
airy  walk  of  my  own.  Dear  ladies,  as  your  excellent  Sheridan  said, 
I  go — and  leave  my  character  behind  me." 

He  got  up ;  put  the  cage  on  the  table,  and  paused,  for  a  moment,  to 
count  the  mice  in  it.  "  One,  two,  three,  four —  Ha !"  he  cried,  with  a 
look  of  horror, "  where,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  is  the  fifth — the  young- 
est, the  whitest,  the  most  amiable  of  all — my  Benjamin  of  mice!" 

Neither  Laura  nor  I  was  in  any  favorable  disposition  to  be 
amused.  The  Count's  glib  cynicism  had  revealed  a  new  aspect  of 
his  nature  from  which  we  both  recoiled.  But  it  was  impossible  to 
resist  the  comical  distress  of  so  very  large  a  man  at  the  loss  of  so 
very  small  a  mouse.  We  laughed,  in  spite  of  ourselves ;  and  when 
Madame  Fosco  rose  to  set  the  example  of  leaving  the  boat-house 
empty,  so  that  her  husband  might  search  it  to  its  remotest  corners, 
we  rose  also  to  follow  her  out. 

Before  we  had  taken  three  steps,  the  Count's  quick  eye  discover- 
ed the  lost  mouse  under  the  seat  that  we  had  been  occupying.  He 
pulled  aside  the  bench ;  took  the  little  animal  up  in  his  hand ;  and 
then  suddenly  stopped,  on  his  knees,  looking  intently  at  a  particu- 
lar place  on  the  ground  just  beneath  him. 

When  he  rose  to  his  feet  again,  his  hand  shook  so  that  he  could 
liardly  put  the  mouse  back  in  the  cage,  and  his  face  was  of  a  faint, 
livid,  yellow  hue  all  over. 

''  Percival !"  he  said,  in  a  whisper.     "  Percival  I  come  here." 

Sir  Percival  had  ])aid  no  attention  to  any  of  us  for  the  last  ten 
minutes.  He  had  been  entirely  absorbed  in  writing  figures  on  the 
sand,  and  then  rubbing  them  out  again,  witli  the  point  of  his  stick. 

"  What's  the  matter,  now  ?"  he  asked,  lounging  carelessly  into  the 
ooat-house. 

"  Do  you  see  nothing  there  ?"  said  the  Count,  catching  him  nerv- 
ously ])y  the  collar  with  one  hand,  and  pointing  with  the  other  to 
the  place  near  which  he  had  found  the  mouse. 

"  I  see  plenty  of  dry  sand,"  answered  Sir  Percival, ''  and  a  spot  of 
dirt  in  the  middle  of  it." 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  209 

"  Not  dirt,"  whispered  the  Count,  fastening  the  other  hand  sud- 
denly on  Sir  Percival's  collar,  and  shaking  it  in  his  agitation. 
-Blood." 

Laura  was  near  enough  to  hear  the  last  word,  softly  as  he  whisper- 
ed it.     She  turned  to  me  with  a  look  of  terror. 

'  I'Tonsense,  my  dear,"  I  said.  ''There  is  no  need  to  be  alarmed. 
It  is  only  the  blood  of  a  poor  little  stray  dog." 

Every  body  was  astonished,  and  every  body's  eyes  were  fixed  on 
me  inquiringly. 

''  How  do  you  know  that  ?"  asked  Sir  Percival,  speaking  first. 

"  I  found  the  dog  here,  dying,  on  the  day  when  you  all  returned 
from  abroad,"  I  replied.  *'  The  poor  creature  had  strayed  into  the 
plantation,  and  had  been  shot  by  your  keeper." 

"  Whose  dog  was  it  ?"  inquired  Sir  Percival.    ''  Xot  one  of  mine  ?" 

"  Did  you  try  to  save  the  poor  thing  ?"  asked  Laura,  earnestly. 
"  Surely  you  tried  to  save  it,  Marian  ?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said ;  "  the  housekeeper  and  I  both  did  our  best — but  the 
dog  was  mortally  wounded,  and  he  died  under  our  hands." 

"Whose  dog  was  it?"  persisted  Sir  Percival,  repeating  his  ques- 
tion, a  little  irritably.     "  One  of  mine  ?" 

"  No ;  not  one  of  yours." 

"  Whose  then  ?     Did  the  housekeeper  know  ?" 

The  housekeeper's  report  of  Mrs.  Catherick's  desire  to  conceal  her 
visit  to  Blackwater  Park  from  Sir  Percival's  knowledge  recurred 
to  my  memory  the  moment  he  put  that  last  question,  and  I  half 
doubted  the  discretion  of  answering  it.  But,  in  my  anxiety  to  quiet 
the  general  alarm,  I  had  thoughtlessly  advanced  too  far  to  draw 
back,  except  at  the  risk  of  exciting  suspicion  which  might  only 
make  matters  worse.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  answer  at 
once,  without  reference  to  results. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  The  housekeeper  knew.  She  told  me  it  was 
Mrs.  Catherick's  dog." 

Sir  Percival  had  hitherto  remained  at  the  inner  end  of  the  boat- 
house  with  Count  Fosco,  while  I  spoke  to  him  from  the  door.  But 
the  instant  Mrs.  Catherick's  name  passed  my  lips,  he  pushed  by  the 
Count  roughly,  and  placed  himself  face  to  face  with  me,  under  the 
open  daylight. 

''How  came  the  housekeeper  to  know  it  was  Mrs.  Catherick's 
dog?"  he  asked,  fixing  his  eyes  on  mine  with  a  frowning  interest  and" 
attention  which  half  angered,  half  startled  me. 

''She  knew  it."  I  said,  quietly,  "because  Mrs.  Catherick  brought 
the  dog  with  her." 

"  Brought  it  with  her  ?     Where  did  she  bring  it  with  her  ?'' 

"  To  this  house." 

"  What  the  devil  did  Mrs.  Catherick  want  at  this  house  ?" 


210  THE    WO-MAN    IN    WHITE. 

The  manner  in  Avliicli  lie  put  tlie  question  was  even  more  offensive 
than  the  language  in  Avhicli  he  expressed  it.  I  marked  my  sense  of 
his  want  of  common  politeness,  by  silently  turning  away  from  him. 

Just  as  I  moved,  the  Count's  persuasive  hand  was  laid  on  his 
shoulder,  and  the  Count's  mellifluous  voice  interposed  to  quiet  him. 

''My  dear  Pcrcival ! — gently — gently." 

Sir  Percival  looked  round  in  his  angriest  manner.  The  Count 
only  smiled,  and  repeated  the  soothing  application. 

"  Gently,  my  good  friend — gently  I'' 

Sir  Pcrcival  hesitated — follovv'cd  me  a  few  steps — and,  to  my  great 
surprise,  offered  me  an  apology. 

"  I  beg  your  jjardon.  Miss  Halcombe,"'  he  said.  "  I  have  been  out 
of  order  lately ;  and  I  am  afraid  I  am  a  little  irritable.  But  I  should 
like  to  know  what  Mrs.  Catherick  could  possiljly  want  here.  When 
did  she  come  ?  Was  the  housekeeper  the  onlv  person  who  saw 
her?" 

"  The  only  person,"  I  answered, ''  so  far  as  I  know." 

The  Count  interposed  again. 

"In  that  case  why  not  question  the  housekeeper?"  he  said. 
"Why  not  go,  Percival,  to  the  fountain-head  of  inforaiation  at 
once  ?" 

"  Quite  right  1"  said  Sir  Percival.  "  Of  course  the  housekeeper  is 
the  first  jDcrson  to  question.  Excessively  stupid  of  me  not  to  see  it 
myself"  With  those  words,  he  instantly  left  us  to  return  to  the 
house. 

The  motive  of  the  Count's  interference,  which  had  puzzled  me  at 
first,  betrayed  itself  when  Sir  Percival's  back  was  turned.  He  had 
a  host  of  questions  to  put  to  me  about  3Irs.  Catherick.  and  the  cause 
of  her  visit  to  Blackwatcr  Park,  which  he  could  scarcely  have  ask- 
ed in  his  friend's  presence.  I  made  my  answers  as  short  as  I  civilly 
could — for  I  had  already  determined  to  check  the  least  approach  to 
any  exchanging  of  confidences  between  Count  Fosco  and  myself 
Laura,  however,  unconsciously  helped  him  to  extract  all  my  infor- 
mation, by  making  inquiries  herself,  which  left  me  no  alternative 
but  to  reply  to  her,  or  to  appear  in  the  vei*y  unenviable  and  very 
false  character  of  a  depositary  of  Sir  Percival's  secrets.  The  end  of 
it  was,  that,  in  about  ten  minutes'  time,  the  Count  knew  as  much  as 
I  know  of  Mrs.  Catherick,  and  of  the  events  which  have  so  strangely 
connected  us  with  her  daughter,  Anne,  from  the  time  when  Hart- 
right  met  with  her  to  this  day. 

The  efficct  of  my  information  on  him  was,  in  one  respect,  curious 
enough. 

Intimately  as  he  knows  Sir  Percival,  and  closely  as  he  appears  to 
be  associated  with  Sir  Percival's  private  affairs  in  general,  he  is  cer- 
tainly as  far  as  I  am  from  knowing  any  thing  of  the  true  story  of 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  211 

Anne  Catherick.  The  unsolved  mystery  in  connection  with  this 
unhappy  woman  is  now  rendered  doubly  suspicious,  in  my  eyes,  by 
the  absolute  conviction  wdiich  I  feel  that  the  clue  to  it  has  l)een 
hidden  by  Sir  Percival  from  the  most  intimate  friend  he  has  in  the 
world.  It  was  impossible  to  mistake  the  eager  curiosity  of  the 
Count's  look  and  manner  while  he  drank  in  greedily  every  word 
that  fell  from  my  lips.  There  are  many  kinds  of  curiosity,  I  know 
— but  there  is  no  misinterpreting  the  curiosity  of  blank  surprise  :  if 
I  ever  saw  it  in  my  life,  I  saw  it  in  the  Count's  face. 

While  the  questions  and  answ^ers  were  going  on  we  had  all  been 
strolling  quietly  back  through  the  plantation.  As  soon  as  w^e  reach- 
ed the  house,  the  first  object  that  we  saw  in  front  of  it  was  Sir  Per- 
cival's  dog-cart,  with  the  horse  put  to,  and  the  groom  waiting  by  it 
in  his  stable-jacket.  If  these  unexpected  appearances  were  to  be 
trusted,  the  examination  of  the  housekeeper  had  produced  impor- 
tant results  already. 

"A  fine  horse,  my  friend,"  said  the  Count,  addressing  the  groom 
with  the  most  engaging  familiarity  of  manner.  "  You  are  going  to 
drive  out  V 

"/am  not  going,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  looking  at  his  stable-jack- 
et, and  evidently  wondering  whether  the  foreign  gentleman  took  it 
for  his  livery.     "  My  master  drives  himself." 

"Aha!"  said  the  Count,  "  does  he  indeed?  I  wonder  he  gives 
himself  the  trouble  when  he  has  got  you  to  drive  for  him.  Is  he 
going  to  fatigue  that  nice,  shining,  pretty  horse  by  taking  him  very 
far  to-day  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  sir,"  answered  the  man.  "  The  horse  is  a  mare, 
if  you  please,  sir.  She's  the  highest-couraged  thing  we've  got  in 
the  stables.  Her  name's  Brown  Molly,  sir ;  and  she'll  go  till  she 
drops.  Sir  Percival  usually  takes  Isaac  of  York  for  the  short  dis- 
tances." 

"  And  your  shining,  courageous  Browm  Molly  for  the  long  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Logical  inference,  Miss  Halcombe,"  continued  the  Count,  w^heel- 
ing  round  briskly,  and  addressing  me  :  "  Sir  Percival  is  going  a 
long  distance  to-day." 

I  made  no  reply.  I  had  my  owm  inferences  to  draw,  from  what  I 
knew  through  the  housekeei^er  and  from  what  I  saw  before  me  ; 
and  I  did  not  choose  to  share  them  with  Count  Fosco. 

When  Sir  Percival  was  in  Cumberland  (I  thought  to  myself),  he 
walked  away  a  long  distance,  on  Anne's  account,  to  question  the 
family  at  Todd's  Corner.  Now  he  is  in  Hampshire,  is  he  going  to 
drive  away  a  long  distance,  on  Anne's  account  again,  to  question 
Mrs.  Catherick  at  Welmingham  ? 

We  all  entered  the  house.     As  we  crossed  the  hall.  Sir  Percival 


212  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

came  out  from  the  lil)rary  to  meet  us.  He  looked  hurried  and  pale 
and  anxious — but,  for  all  that,  he  was  in  his  most  polite  mood  when 
he  spoke  to  us. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  I  am  obliged  to  leave  you,"  he  began — "  a 
long  drive — a  matter  that  I  can't  very  well  put  off.  I  shall  be  back 
in  good  time  to-morrow,  l^ut,  ]>efore  I  go,  I  should  like  that  little 
business  formality,  wliich  I  spoke  of  this  morning,  to  be  settled. 
Laura,  will  you  come  into  the  library  ?  It  won't  take  a  minute — a 
mere  formality.  Countess,  may  I  trouble  you  also  ?  I  want  you  and 
the  Countess,  Fosco,  to  be  witnesses  to  a  signature — nothing  more. 
Come  in  at  once,  and  get  it  over." 

He  held  the  library  door  open  until  they  had  passed  in,  followed 
them,  and  shut  it  softly. 

I  remained,  for  a  moment  afterward,  standing  alone  in  the  hall, 
with  my  heart  beating  fast,  and  my  mind  misgiving  me  sadly. 
Then  I  went  on  to  the  staircase,  and  ascended  slowly  to  my  own 
room. 

IV. 

June  17tJi. — Just  as  my  hand  was  on  the  door  of  my  room,  I  heard 
Sir  Percival's  voice  calling  to  me  from  below. 

"  I  must  1)eg  you  to  come  down  stairs  again,"  he  said.  "  It  is  Fos- 
co's  fault.  Miss  Halcombe,  not  mine.  He  has  started  some  nonsens- 
ical objection  to  his  wife  being  one  of  the  witnesses,  and  has  obliged 
me  to  ask  you  to  join  us  in  the  library." 

I  entered  the  room  immediately  with  Sir  Percival.  Laura  was 
waiting  by  the  writing-table,  twisting  and  turning  her  garden-hat 
uneasily  in  her  hands.  Madame  Fosco  sat  near  her,  in  an  arm-chair, 
imperturbably  admiring  her  husband,  who  stood  by  himself  at  the 
other  end  of  the  library,  picking  off  the  dead  leaves  from  the  flowers 
in  the  window. 

The  moment  I  appeared  the  Count  advanced  to  meet  me,  and  to 
oflfer  his  explanations. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said.  "  You  know 
the  character  which  is  given  to  my  countrymen  by  the  English  ? 
We  Italians  are  all  wily  and  suspicious  by  nature,  in  the  estimation 
of  the  good  John  Bull.  Set  me  down,  if  you  please,  as  being  no 
better  than  the  rest  of  my  race.  I  am  a  wily  Italian,  and  a  suspi- 
cious Italian.  You  have  thought  so  yourself,  dear  lady,  have  you 
not  ?  Well !  it  is  part  of  my  willingness  and  part  of  my  suspicion 
to  object  to  Madame  Fosco  being  a  witness  to  Lady  Glyde's  signa- 
ture, when  I  am  also  a  witness  myself" 

''  Tliere  is  not  the  shadow  of  a  reason  for  his  objection,"  inter- 
posed Sir  Percival.  "I  have  explained  to  him  that  the  law  of  En- 
gland allows  Madame  Fosco  to  witness  a  signature  as  well  as  her 
husband." 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  213 

"  I  admit  it,"'  resumed  the  Count.  "  The  law  of  England  says 
Yes — but  the  conscience  of  Fosco  says  Xo/'  He  spread  out  his  fat 
nngers  on  the  bosom  of  his  blouse,  and  bowed  solemnly,  as  if  he 
wished  to  introduce  his  conscience  to  us  all,  in  the  character  of  an 
illustrious  addition  to  the  society.  '-What  this  document  which 
Lady  Glyde  is  about  to  sign  may  be,"  he  continued,  ^'I  neither 
know  nor  desire  to  know.  I  only  say  this:  circumstances  may 
liappen  in  the  ftiture  which  may  oblige  Percival,  or  his  representa- 
tives, to  appeal  to  the  two  witnesses ;  in  which  case  it  is  certainly 
desirable  that  those  witnesses  should  represent  two  opinions  which 
are  perfectly  independent  the  one  of  the  other.  This  can  not  be  if 
my  wife  signs  as  well  as  myself,  because  we  have  but  one  opinion 
between  us,  and  that  opinion  is  mine.  I  will  not  have  it  cast  in  my 
teeth,  at  some  future  day.  that  Madame  Fosco  acted  under  my  coer- 
cion, and  was.  in  plain  fact,  no  witness  at  all.  I  speak  in  Percival's 
interest  when  I  propose  that  my  name  shall  appear  (as  the  nearest 
fiiend  of  the  husbandj,  and  your  name,]\Iiss  Halcombe  (as  the  near- 
est friend  of  the  wife;.  I  am  a  Jesuit,  if  you  please  to  think  so — a 
splitter  of  straws — a  man  of  ti-ilies  and  crotchets  and  scruples — but 
you  will  humor  me,  I  hope,  in  merciful  consideration  for  my  suspi- 
cious Italian  character,  and  ray  uneasy  Italian  conscience."  He 
bowed  again,  stepped  back  a  few  paces,  and  withdrew  his  con- 
science from  our  society  as  politely  as  he  had  introduced  it. 

The  Count's  scruples  might  have  been  honorable  and  reasonable 
enough,  but  there  was  something  in  his  manner  of  expressing  them 
v>-hich  increased  my  unwillingness  to  be  concerned  in  the  business 
of  the  signature.  Xo  consideration  of  less  importance  than  my  con- 
sideration for  Laura  would  have  induced  me  to  consent  to  be  a  wit- 
ness at  all.  One  look,  however,  at  her  anxious  face  decided  me  to 
risk  any  thing  rather  than  desert  her. 

"I  will  readily  remain  in  the  room."  I  said.  "And  if  I  find  no 
reason  for  starting  any  small  scruples  on  my  side,  you  may  rely  on 
me  as  a  witness." 

Sir  Percival  looked  at  me  sharply,  as  if  he  was  about  to  say  some- 
thing. But,  at  the  same  moment,  Madame  Fosco  attracted  his  at- 
tention by  rising  from  her  chair.  She  had  caught  her  husband's 
eye,  and  had  evidently  received  her  orders  to  leave  the  room. 

*•  You  needn't  go,''  said  Sir  Percival. 

Madame  Fosco  looked  for  her  orders  again,  got  them  again,  said 
she  would  prefer  leaving  us  to  our  business,  and  resolutely  walked 
out.  The  Count  lit  a  cigarette,  went  back  to  the  flowers  in  the 
window,  and  pufifed  little  jets  of  smoke  at  the  leaves,  in  a  state  of 
the  deepest  anxiety  about  killing  the  insects. 

Meanwhile  Sir  Percival  unlocked  a  cupboard  beneath  one  of  the 
book-cases,  and  produced  from  it  a  piece  of  parchment  folded,  long- 


214  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

wise,  nmr.y  times  over.  lie  placed  it  on  tlie  table,  opened  the  last 
fold  only,  and  kept  his  hand  on  the  rest.  The  last  fold  displayed  a 
strip  of  blank  parchment  with  little  wafers  stuck  on  it  at  certain 
places.  Every  line  of  the  writing  was  hidden  in  the  part  which  he 
still  held  folded  up  under  his  hand.  Laura  and  I  looked  at  each 
other.     Her  face  was  pale,  but  it  showed  no  indecision  and  no  fear. 

Sir  Percival  dipped  a  pen  in  ink,  and  handed  it  to  his  wife. 

"  Sign  your  name  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  place.  "  You 
and  Fosco  are  to  sign  afterward,  Miss  Halcombe,  opposite  those  two 
■vf  afers.  Come  here,  Fosco  I  witnessing  a  signature  is  not  to  be  done 
by  mooning  out  of  window  and  smoking  into  the  flowers," 

The  Count  threw  away  his  cigarette,  and  joined  us  at  the  table, 
with  his  hands  carelessly  thrust  into  the  scarlet  belt  of  his  blouse, 
and  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  Sir  Pcrcival's  face.  Laura,  who  was 
on  the  other  side  of  her  husband,  with  the  pen  in  her  hand,  looked 
at  him  too.  He  stood  between  them,  holding  the  folded  parch- 
ment down  firmly  on  the  table,  and  glancing  across  at  me,  as  I  sat 
opposite  to  him,  with  such  a  sinister  mixture  of  suspicion  and  em- 
barrassment in  his  face,  that  he  looked  more  like  a  prisoner  at  the 
bar  than  a  gentleman  in  his  own  house. 

"  Sign  there,"  he  repeated,  turning  suddenly  on  Laura,  and  point- 
ing once  more  to  the  place  on  the  parchment. 

"  What  is  it  I  am  to  sign  ?"  she  asked,  quietly. 

"  I  have  no  time  to  explain,"  he  answered.  "  The  dog  -  cart  is 
at  the  door ;  and  I  must  go  directly.  Besides,  if  I  had  time,  you 
wouldn't  understand.  It  is  a  purely  formal  document — full  of  legal 
technicalities,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Come  !  come  !  sign  your 
name,  and  let  us  have  done  as  soon  as  possible." 

"  I  ought  surely  to  know  what  I  am  signing.  Sir  Percival,  before 
I  write  my  name  ?" 

"  Nonsense  !  What  have  women  to  do  with  business  ?  I  tell 
you  again,  you  can't  understand  it." 

"At  any  rate,  let  me  try  to  understand  it.  Whenever  Mr.  Gilmore 
had  any  business  for  me  to  do,  he  always  explained  it  first ;  and  I 
always  understood  him." 

"  I  dare  say  he  did.  He  was  your  servant,  and  was  obliged  to  ex- 
plain. I  am  your  husband,  and  am  not  obliged.  How  much  longer 
do  you  mean  to  keep  me  here  ?  I  tell  you  again,  there  is  no  time 
for  reading  any  thing:  the  dog-cart  is  waiting  at  the  door.  Once 
for  all,  will  you  sign,  or  will  you  not  ?" 

She  still  had  the  pen  in  her  hand ;  but  she  made  no  approach  to 
signing  her  name  with  it. 

"  If  my  signature  ])ledges  me  to  any  thing,"  she  said,  "  surely  I 
have  some  claim  to  know  what  that  pledge  is  ?" 

He  lilted  up  the  parchment,  and  struck  it  angriiy  on  the  table. 


eH^X   IlILUC  , 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  217 

•*  Speak  out  I"  lie  said.  "  You  were  always  famous  for  telling 
the  truth.  Never  mind  Miss  Halcombe  ;  never  mind  Fosco — say,  in 
plain  terms,  you  distrust  me." 

The  Count  took  one  of  his  hands  out  of  his  belt,  and  laid  it  on 
Sir  Percival's  shoulder.  Sir  Percival  shook  it  off  irritably.  The 
Count  put  it  on  again  with  unruffled  composure. 

"  Control  your  unfortunate  temper,  Percival,"  he  said.  "  Lady 
Glyde  is  right." 

''  Right !"  cried  Sir  PercivaL  "  A  wife  right  in  distrusting  her 
husband  I" 

"  It  is  unjust  and  cruel  to  accuse  me  of  distrusting  you,"  said 
Laura.  "  Ask  Marian  if  I  am  not  justified  in  wanting  to  know  what 
this  writing  requires  of  me,  before  I  sign  it  ?" 

''  I  won't  have  any  appeals  made  to  Miss  Halcombe,"  retorted  Sir 
Percival.     "  Miss  Halcombe  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter." 

I  had  not  spoken  hitherto,  and  I  would  much  rather  not  have 
spoken  now.  But  the  expression  of  distress  in  Laura's  face  when 
she  turned  it  toward  me,  and  the  insolent  injustice  of  her  husband's 
conduct,  left  me  no  other  alternative  than  to  give  my  opinion,  for 
her  sake,  as  soon  as  I  was  asked  for  it. 

"  Excuse  me.  Sir  Percival,"  I  said — "  but,  as  one  of  the  witnesses 
to  the  signature,  I  venture  to  think  that  I  hane  something  to  do  with 
the  matter,  Laura's  objection  seems  to  me  a  perfectly  tair  one; 
and,  speaking  for  myself  only,  I  can  not  assume  the  responsibility 
of  witnessing  her  signature,  unless  she  first  understands  what  the 
writing  is  which  you  wish  her  to  sign." 

"'  A  cool  declaration,  upon  my  soul !"  cried  Sir  Percival.  ^'  The 
next  time  you  invite  yourself  to  a  man"*®  house.  Miss  Halcombe,  I 
recommend  you  not  to  repay  his  hospitality  by  taking  his  wife's 
side  against  him  in  a  matter  that  doesn't  concern  you." 

I  started  to  my  feet  as  suddenly  as  if  he  had  struck  me.  If  I  had 
been  a  man,  I  would  have  knocked  him  down  on  the  threshold  of 
his  own  door,  and  have  left  his  house,  never  on  any  earthly  consid- 
eration to  enter  it  again.  But  I  was  only  a  woman — and  I  loved 
his  wife  so  dearly  ! 

Thank  God,  that  faithful  love  helped  me,  and  I  sat  down  again, 
without  saying  a  word.  She  knew  what  I  had  suffered,  and  what  I 
had  suppressed.  She  ran  round  to  me,  with  the  tears  streaming 
from  her  eyes.  "  Oh,  Marian  i"  she  whispered,  softly,  "  If  my  moth- 
er had  been  alive,  she  could  have  done  no  more  for  me  V 

"  Come  back  and  sign  V  cried  Sir  Percival,  from  the  other  side  of 
the  table. 

"  Shall  I V  she  asked  in  my  ear ;  ''  I  will,  if  you  tell  me." 

"  No,"  I  answered.  "  The  right  and  the  truth  are  with  jou — • 
sign  nothing,  unless  vou  have  read  it  first" 


218  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Come  back  and  sign  I''  he  reiterated,  in  his  loudest  and  angriest 
tones. 

The  Count,  -vvho  had  watched  Laura  and  me  with  a  close  and 
silent  attention,  interposed  for  the  second  time, 

"•  Percival  1"  he  said,  "/remember  that  I  am  in  the  presence  of 
ladies.     Be  good  enough,  if  you  please,  to  remember  it,  too." 

Sir  Percival  turned  on  him,  speechless  witli  passion.  The  Count's 
firm  hand  slowly  tightened  its  grasp  on  his  shoulder,  and  the  Count's 
steady  voice  quietly  repeated,  "  Be  good  enough,  if  you  please,  to 
remember  it,  too." 

They  both  looked  at  each  other :  Sir  Percival  slowly  drew  his 
shoulder  from  under  the  Count's  hand ;  slowly  turned  his  face 
away  from  the  Count's  eyes ;  doggedly  looked  down  for  a  little 
while  at  the  parchment  on  the  table  ;  and  then  spoke,  with  the  sul- 
len submission  of  a  tamed  animal,  rather  than  the  becoming  resigna- 
tion of  a  convinced  man, 

"  I  don't  want  to  offend  any  body,"  he  said, ''  but  my  wife's  ob- 
stinacy is  enough  to  try  the  patience  of  a  saint.  I  have  told  her 
this  is  merely  a  formal  document — and  what  more  can  she  want '? 
You  may  say  what  you  please  ;  but  it  is  no  part  of  a  woman's  duty 
to  set  her  husband  at  defiance.  Once  more.  Lady  Glyde,  and  for 
the  last  time,  will  you  sign,  or  will  you  not  ?" 

Laura  returned  to  his  side  of  the  table,  and  took  up  the  pen  again. 

''  I  will  sign  with  pleasure,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will  only  treat  me 
as  a  responsible  being.  I  care  little  v.hat  sacrifice  is  required  of 
me,  if  it  will  affect  no  one  else,  and  lead  to  no  ill  results — " 

"  Who  talked  of  a  sacrifice  being  required  of  you  ?"  he  broke  in, 
with  a  half-suppressed  return  of  his  former  violence. 

''  I  only  meant,"  she  resumed,  '•  that  I  would  refuse  no  concession 
which  I  could  honorably  make.  If  I  have  a  scruple  about  signing 
my  name  to  an  engagement  of  which  I  know  nothing,  why  should 
you  visit  it  on  me  so  severely  ?  It  is  rather  hard.  I  think,  to  treat 
Count  Fosco's  scruples  so  much  more  indulgently  than  you  have 
treated  mine." 

This  unfortunate,  yet  most  natural,  reference  to  the  Count's  ex- 
traordinary power  over  her  husband,  indirect  as  it  was,  set  Sir  Per- 
cival's  smouldering  temper  on  fire  again  in  an  instant. 

"Scruples!"  he  repeated.  ''You?'  scruples  I  It  is  rather  late  in 
the  day  for  you  to  be  scrupulous.  I  should  have  thought  you  had 
got  over  all  weakness  of  that  sort,  Avhen  you  made  a  virtue  of  neces- 
sity by  marrying  me.''' 

The  instant  he  spoke  those  words,  Laura  threw  down  the  pen — 
looked  at  him  with  an  expression  in  her  eyes,  which  throughout  all 
my  experience  of  her,  I  had  never  seen  in  them  before — and  turned 
her  l)ark  on  him  in  dead  silence. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  219 

This  strong  expression  of  the  most  open  and  the  most  bitter  con- 
tempt was  so  entirely  unlike  herself,  so  utterly  out  of  her  character, 
that  it  silenced  us  all.  There  was  something  hidden,  beyond  a 
doubt,  under  the  mere  surface-brutality  of  the  words  which  her  hus- 
band had  just  addressed  to  her.  There  was  some  lurking  insult  be- 
neath them,  of  which  I  was  wholly  ignorant,  but  which  had  left  the 
mark  of  its  profanation  so  plainly  on  her  face  that  even  a  stranger 
might  have  seen  it. 

The  Count,  who  was  no  stranger,  saw  it  as  distinctly  as  I  did. 
When  I  lefl  my  chair  to  join  Laura,  I  heard  him  whisper  under  his 
breath  to  Sir  Percival,  "  You  idiot !" 

Laura  walked  before  me  to  the  door  as  I  advanced ;  and,  at  the 
same  time,  her  husband  spoke  to  her  once  more. 

"  You  positively  refuse,  then,  to  give  me  your  signature  ?"  he  said, 
in  the  altered  tone  of  a  man  who  was  conscious  that  he  had  let  his 
own  license  of  language  seriously  injure  him. 

"  After  what  you  have  just  said  to  me,"  she  replied,  tinnly,  "  I  re- 
fuse my  signature  until  I  have  read  every  line  in  that  parchment 
from  the  first  word  to  the  last.  Come  away,  Marian,  we  have  remain- 
ed here  long  enough." 

"  One  moment !"  interposed  the  Count,  before  Sir  Percival  could 
speak  again — "  one  moment.  Lady  Glyde,  I  implore  you  !" 

Laura  would  have  left  the  room  without  noticing  him  ;  but  I  stop- 
ped her. 

''  Don't  make  an  enemy  of  the  Count !"  I  whispered.  "  Whatever 
you  do,  don't  make  an  enemy  of  the  Count  1" 

She  yielded  to  me.  I  closed  the  door  again ;  and  we  stood  near 
it,  waiting.  Sir  Percival  sat  down  at  the  table,  with  his  elbow  on 
the  folded  parchment,  and  his  head  resting  on  his  clenched  fist. 
The  Count  stood  between  us — master  of  the  dreadful  position  in 
which  we  were  placed,  as  he  was  master  of  every  thing  else. 

"  Lady  Glyde,"  he  said,  with  a  gentleness  which  seemed  to  ad- 
dress itself  to  our  forlorn  situation  instead  of  to  ourselves,  "  pray  par- 
don me,  if  I  venture  to  offer  one  suggestion ;  and  pray  believe  that  I 
speak  out  of  my  profound  respect  and  my  friendly  regard  for  the 
mistress  of  this  house."  He  turned  sharply  toward  Sir  Percival. 
"Is  it  absolutely  necessary,"  he  asked,  "that  this  thing  here,  under 
your  elbow,  should  be  signed  to-day  ?" 

"  It  is  necessary  to  my  plans  and  wishes,"  returned  the  other,  sulk- 
ily. "  But  that  consideration,  as  you  may  have  noticed,  has  no  in- 
fluence with  Lady  Glyde." 

"  Answer  my  plain  question  plainly.  Can  the  business  of  the  sig- 
/lature  be  put  oif  till  to-morrow — Yes  or  No  ?" 

"  Yes — if  you  will  have  it  so." 

"  Then  what  are  you  wasting  your  time  for  here  ?  Let  ihc  signa-. 
ture  wait  till  to-morrow — let  it  wait  till  vou  come  back." 


220  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Sir  Percival  looked  up  with  a  frown  and  an  oath. 

"You  are  takin^r  a  tone  with  me  that  I  don't  like,"  he  said,  "A 
tone  I  won't  ])ear  from  any  man." 

"  I  am  advising  you  for  your  good,"  returned  the  Count,  with  a 
smile  of  quiet  contempt.  "  Give  yourself  time ;  give  Lady  Glyde  time. 
Have  you  forgotten  that  your  dog-cart  is  waiting  at  the  door  ?  My 
tone  surprises  you — ha  ?  I  dare  say  it  does — it  is  the  tone  of  a  man 
who  can  keep  his  temper.  How  many  doses  of  good  advice  have  I 
given  you  in  my  time  ?  More  than  you  can  count.  Have  I  ever 
been  wrong  ?  I  defy  you  to  quote  me  an  instance  of  it.  Go !  take 
your  drive.  The  matter  of  the  signature  can  wait  till  to-morrow. 
Let  it  wait — and  renew  it  when  you  come  back." 

Sir  Percival  hesitated,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  His  anxiety 
about  the  secret  journey  which  he  was  to  take  that  day,  revived  by 
the  Count's  words,  was  now  evidently  disputing  possession  of  his 
mind  with  his  anxiety  to  obtain  Laura's  signature.  He  considered 
for  a  little  while  and  then  got  up  from  his  chair. 

"  It  is  easy  to  argue  me  down,"  he  said,  "  when  I  have  no  time  to 
answer  you.  I  will  take  your  advice,  Fosco — not  because  I  want  it, 
or  believe  in  it,  but  because  I  can't  stoj^  here  any  longer."  He 
paused,  and  looked  round  darkly  at  his  wife.  "  If  you  don't  give 
me  your  signature  when  I  come  back  to-morrow — !"  The  rest  was 
lost  in  the  noise  of  his  opening  the  book-case  cupboard  again,  and 
locking  up  the  parchment  once  more.  He  took  his  hat  and  gloves 
off  the  table,  and  made  for  the  door.  Laura  and  I  drew  back  to  let 
him  pass.  "  Remember  to-morrow  !"  he  said  to  his  wife,  and  went 
out. 

We  waited  to  give  him  time  to  cross  the  hall  and  drive  away. 
The  Count  approached  us  while  we  were  standing  near  the  door. 

"  You  have  just  seen  Percival  at  his  worst.  Miss  Halcombe,"  he 
said.  ''  As  his  old  friend,  I  am  sorry  for  him  and  ashamed  of  him. 
As  his  old  friend,  I  promise  you  that  he  shall  not  break  out  to-mor- 
row in  the  same  disgraceful  manner  in  which  he  has  broken  out  to- 
day." 

Laura  had  taken  my  arm  while  ho  was  speaking,  and  she  pressed 
it  significantly  when  he  had  done.  It  would  have  been  a  hard  trial 
to  any  woman  to  stand  by  and  see  the  office  of  apologist  for  her  hus- 
band's misconduct  quietly  assumed  by  his  male  friend  in  her  own 
house — and  it  was  a  trial  to  her.  I  thanked  the  Count  civilly,  and 
led  her  out.  Yes !  I  thanked  him :  for  I  felt  already,  with  a  sense 
of  inexpressible  helplessness  and  humiliation,  that  it  was  either  his 
interest  or  his  caprice  to  make  sure  of  my  continuing  to  reside  at 
Blackwatcr  Park ;  and  I  knew  after  Sir  Percival's  conduct  to  me, 
that  without  the  support  of  the  Count's  influence,  I  could  not  hope 
to  remain  there.     His  influence,  the  influence  of  all  others  that  I 


THE    WOMAX    IX    AVniTE.  221 

dreaded  most,  was  actually  the  one  tie  which  now  held  me  to  Laura 
in  the  hour  of  her  utmost  need  I 

We  heard  the  wheels  of  the  do^^-cart  crashinij  on  the  gravel  of 
the  drive,  as  we  came  into  tlie  hall.  Sir  Percival  had  started  on  his 
journey. 

''  Where  is  he  going  to,  Marian  ?"  Laura  whispered.  "  Every  fresh 
thing  he  does  seems  to  terrify  me  about  the  future.  Have  you  any 
suspicions  ?" 

After  what  she  had  undergone  that  morning,  I  was  unwilling  to 
tell  her  my  suspicions. 

"  How  should  I  know  his  secrets,''  I  said,  evasively. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  housekeeper  knows  V  she  persisted. 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  replied.  "  She  must  be  quite  as  ignorant  as 
we  are." 

Laura  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

''  Did  you  not  hear  from  the  housekeeper  that  there  was  a  report 
of  Anne  Catherick  having  been  seen  in  this  neighborhood  ?  Don't 
you  think  he  may  have  gone  away  to  look  for  her  ?'' 

••  I  would  rather  compose  myself,  Laura,  by  not  thinking  about 
it  at  all ;  and,  after  what  has  happened,  you  had  better  follow  my 
example.     Come  into  my  room,  and  rest  and  quiet  yourself  a  little." 

We  sat  down  together  close  to  the  window,  and  let  the  fragrant 
summer  air  breathe  over  our  faces. 

''  I  am  ashamed  to  look  at  you,  Marian,"  she  said, ''  after  what  you 
submitted  to  down  stairs  for  my  sake.  Oh,  my  own  love,  I  am  al- 
most heart-broken,  when  I  think  of  it  1  But  I  will  try  to  make  it 
up  to  you — I  will  indeed  I'' 

"  Hush  1  hush  !"  I  replied  ;  ''  don't  talk  so.  What  is  the  trifling 
mortification  of  my  pride  compared  to  the  dreadful  sacrifice  of  your 
happiness  ?" 

*'  You  heard  what  he  said  to  me  ?"  she  went  on.  quickly  and  ve 
hemently,  "  You  heard  the  words — but  you  don't  know  wh:U  they 
meant — you  don't  know  why  I  threw  down  the  pen  and  turned  my 
back  on  him."  She  rose  in  sudden  agitation,  and  walked  about  the 
room.  "  I  have  kept  many  things  from  your  knowledge,  Marian, 
for  fear  of  distressing  you,  and  making  you  unhappy  at  the  outset 
of  our  new  Uves.  You  don't  know  how  he  has  used  me.  x\nd  yet 
you  ought  to  know,  for  you  saw  how  he  used  me  to-day.  You 
heard  him  %neer  at  my  presuming  to  be  scnipulous ;  you  heard  him 
say  I  had  made  a  virtue  of  necessity  in  mariying  him."  She  sat 
down  again ;  her  face  flushed  deeply,  and  her  hands  twisted  and 
twined  together  in  her  lap.  ''  I  can't  tell  you  about  it  now,"  she 
said;  "I  shall  burst  out  crying  if  I  tell  you  now  —  later,  Marian, 
when  I  am  more  sure  of  myself.  My  poor  head  aches,  darling — 
aches,  aches,  aches.     Where  is  your  smelling-bottle  ?     Let  me  talk 


222  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

to  you  about  yourself.  I  wish  I  had  given  him  my  signature,  for 
your  sake.  Shall  I  give  it  to  him  to-morrow?  I  would  rather 
compromise  myself  than  compromise  you.  After  your  taking  my 
part  against  him,  he  will  lay  all  the  blame  on  you,  if  I  refuse  again. 
What  shall  we  do  ?  Oil,  for  a  friend  to  help  us  and  advise  us  ! — a 
friend  we  could  really  trust  I" 

She  sighed  bitterly.  I  saw  in  her  face  that  she  was  thinking  of 
Hartright — saw  it  the  more  plainly  because  her  last  words  set  me 
thinking  of  him  too.  In  six  months  only  from  her  marriage,  we 
wanted  the  faithful  service  he  had  offered  to  us  in  his  farewell 
words.  How  little  I  once  thought  that  we  should  ever  want  it 
at  all ! 

"  We  must  do  what  we  can  to  help  ourselves,"  I  said.  "  Let  us 
try  to  talk  it  over  calmly,  Laura — let  us  do  all  in  our  power  to  de- 
cide for  the  best." 

Putting  what  she  knew  of  her  husband's  embarrassments,  and 
what  I  had  heard  of  his  conversation  with  the  lav,'yer,  together,  we 
arrived  necessarily  at  the  conclusion  that  the  parchment  in  the  li- 
brary had  been  drawn  up  for  the  purpose  of  borrowing  money,  and 
that  Laura's  signature  was  absolutely  necessary  to  fit  it  for  the  at- 
tainment of  Sir  PercivaVs  object. 

The  second  question,  concerning  the  nature  of  the  legal  contract 
by  which  the  money  was  to  be  obtained,  and  the  degree  of  personal 
responsibility  to  which  Laura  might  subject  herself  if  she  signed 
it  in  the  dark,  involved  considerations  which  lay  far  beyond  any 
knowledge  and  expeiience  that  either  of  us  possessed.  My  own 
convictions  led  me  to  believe  that  the  hidden  contents  of  the 
parchment  concealed  a  transaction  of  the  meanest  and  the  most 
fraudulent  kind. 

I  had  not  formed  this  conclusion  in  consequence  of  Sir  Percival's 
refusal  to  show  the  writing,  or  to  explain  it ;  for  that  refusal  might 
well  have  proceeded  from  his  obstinate  disposition  and  his  domi- 
neering temper  alone.  My  sole  motive  for  distrusting  his  honesty 
sprang  from  the  change  which  I  bad  ob.verved  in  his  language  and 
liis  manners  at  Blackwater  Park,  a  change  wliich  convinced  me  that 
he  had  ])een  acting  a  ])art  throughout  the  v.holc  period  of  his  pro- 
bation at  Limmeridge  House.  His  elaborate  delicacy;  his  ceremo- 
nious politeness,  which  harmonized  so  agreeably  with  Mr.  Gilmore's 
old-fashioned  notions  ;  his  modesty  with  Laura,  his  candor  with  me, 
his  moderation  with  Mr.  Fairlie — all  these  were  the  artifices  of  a 
mean,  cunning,  and  brutal  man,  who  had  dropped  his  disguise  when 
his  practiced  duplicity  had  gained  its  end,  and  had  openly  shown 
himself  in  the  library  on  that  very  day.  I  say  nothing  of  the  grief 
which  this  discovery  caused  me  on  Laura's  account,  for  it  is  not  to 
be  expressed  by  any  words  of  mine.     I  only  refer  to  it  at  all,  be- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  223 

crr.se  it  decided  me  to  oppose  her  signing  the  parchment,  whatever 
the  coLiSi?(piences  might  be,  unless  she  was  first  made  acquainted 
witli  the  contents. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  one  chance  for  us  when  to-mor- 
row came,  was  to  be  provided  with  an  objection  to  giving  the  sig- 
nature, which  might  rest  on  sufficiently  firm  commercial  or  legal 
grounds  to  shake  Sir  PercivaFs  resolution,  and  to  make  him  suspect 
that  we  two  women  understood  the  law^s  and  obligations  of  busi- 
ness as  well  as  himself. 

Afier  some  pondering,  I  determined  to  write  to  the  only  honest 
man  within  reach  ^vhom  we  could  trust  to  help  us  discreetly,  in  our 
forlorn  situation.  That  man  was  Mr.  Gilmore's  partner — Mr.  Kyrle 
— who  conducted  the  business,  now  that  our  old  tiiend  had  been 
obliged  to  withdraw  from  it,  and  to  leave  London  on  account  of  his 
health.  \  explained  to  Laura  that  I  had  Mr.  Gilmore's  own  author- 
ity for  placing  implicit  confidence  in  his  partner's  integrity,  discre- 
tion, and  accurate  knowledge  of  all  her  aftairs  ;  and,  -^T-th  her  full 
approval,  I  sat  down  at  once  to  write  the  letter. 

I  began  by  stating  our  position  to  Mr.  Kyrle  exactly  as  it  was ; 
and  then  asked  for  his  advice  in  return,  expressed  in  plain,  down- 
right terms  which  he  CDuld  comprehend  without  any  danger  of  mis- 
interpretations and  mistakes.  My  letter  was  as  short  as  I  could 
possibly  make  it,  and  was,  I  hope,  unincumbered  by  needless  apolo- 
gies and  needless  details. 

Just  as  I  was  about  to  put  the  address  on  the  envelope,  an  obsta- 
cle was  discovered  by  Laura,  which,  in  the  efibrt  and  preoccupation 
of  writing,  had  escaped  my  mind  altogether. 

'•  How  are  we  to  get  the  answer  in  time  ?''  she. asked.  "  Your  let- 
ter will  not  be  delivered  in  London  before  to-morrow  morning ;  and 
the  post  will  not  bring  the  reply  here  till  the  morning  after." 

The  only  way  of  overcoming  this  difficulty  was  to  have  the  an- 
swer brought  to  us  from  the  lawyer's  office  by  a  special  messenger. 
I  wrote  a  postscript  to  that  efi'ect,  begging  that  the  messenger  might 
be  dispatched  with  the  reply  by  the  eleven  o'clock  morning  train, 
which  would  bring  him  to  our  station  at  twenty  minutes  past  one, 
and  so  enable  him  to  reach  Blackwater  Park  by  two  o'clock  at  the 
latest.  He  was  to  be  directed  to  ask  for  me,  to  answer  no  questions 
addressed  to  him  by  any  one  else,  and  to  deliver  his  letter  into  no 
hands  but  mine. 

"  In  case  Sir  Percival  should  come  back  to-morrow  before  tvro 
o'clock,"  I  said  to  Laura, ''  the  wisest  plan  for  you  to  adopt  is  to  be 
out  in  the  grounds  all  the  morning,  with  your  book  or  your  work, 
and  not  to  appear  at  the  house  till  the  messenger  has  had  time  to 
arrive  with  the  letter.  I  Avill  wait  here  for  him  all  the  morning,  to 
guard  against  any  misadventures  or  mistakes.     By  following  this 


224  THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

arrangement,  I  hope  and  believe  we  shall  avoid  lacing  taken  by  siir- 
prise.  Let  ns  go  down  to  the  drawing-room  now.  We  may  excite 
suspicion  if  we  remain  shut  up  together  too  long." 

''  Suspicion  V  she  repeated.  "  Whose  suspicion  can  we  excite, 
now  that  Sir  Percival  has  left  the  house  ?  Do  you  mean  Count 
Fosco  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  do,  Laura." 

"  You  are  beginning  to  dislike  him  as  much  as  I  do,  Marian." 

''  No ;  not  to  dislike  him.  Dislike  is  always,  more  or  less,  associ- 
ated with  contempt — I  can  see  nothing  in  the  Count  to  despise." 

''  You  are  not  afraid  of  him,  are  you  ?" 

"  Perhaps  I  am — a  little." 

"  Afraid  of  him,  after  his  interference  in  our  favor  to-day  ?" 

"  Yes.  I  am  more  afraid  of  his  interference  than  I  am  of  Sir 
Percival's  violence.  Remember  what  I  said  to  you  in  the  library. 
Whatever  you  do,  Laura,  don't  make  an  enemy  of  the  Count !" 

We  went  down  stairs.  Laura  entered  the  drawing-room ;  while 
I  proceeded  across  the  hall,  with  my  letter  in  my  hand,  to  put  it 
into  the  post-bag,  which  hung  against  the  wall  opposite  to  me. 

The  house  door  was  oj>en  ;  and,  as  I  crossed  past  it,  I  saw  Count 
Fosco  and  his  wife  standing  talking  together  on  the  steps  oulside, 
with  their  faces  turned  toward  me. 

The  Countess  came  into  the  hall  rather  hastily,  and  asked  if  I  had 
leisure  enough  for  five  minutes'  private  conversation.  Feeling  a 
little  sui^jrised  by  such  an  appeal  from  such  a  person,  I  put  my  let- 
ter into  the  bag,  and  replied  that  I  was  quite  at  her  disposal.  She 
took  my  arm  with  unaccustomed  friendliness  and  familiarity ;  and 
instead  of  leading  me  into  an  empty  room,  drew  me  out  with  her  to 
the  belt  of  turf  which  surrounded  the  large  fish-pond. 

As  we  passed  the  Count  on  the  steps,  he  bowed  and  smiled,  and 
then  went  at  once  into  the  house;  pushing  the  hall  door  to  aftei 
him,  but  not  actually  closing  it. 

The  Countess  walked  me  gently  round  the  fish-pond.  I  expected 
to  be  made  the  depositary  of  some  extraordinary  confidence ;  and  i 
was  astonished  to  find  that  Madame  Fosco's  communication  for  mj 
private  ear  was  nothing  more  than  a  polite  assurance  of  her  sympa^ 
thy  for  me,  after  what  had  happened  in  the  library.  Her  husband 
had  told  her  of  all  that  had  passed,  and  of  the  insolent  manner  in 
which  Sir  Percival  had  spoken  to  me.  This  information  had  so 
shocked  and  distressed  her,  on  my  account  and  on  Laura's,  that  she 
had  made  up  her  mind,  if  any  thing  of  the  sort  happened  again,  to 
mark  her  sense  of  Sir  Percival's  outrageous  conduct  by  leaving  the 
liouse.  Tlie  Count  had  approved  of  her  idea,  and  she  now  hoped 
that  I  approved  of  it  too. 

X  thought  this  a  very  strange  proceeding  on  the  part  of  such  a  re- 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  225 

markably  reserved  woman  as  ;>radame  Fosco — especially  after  the 
interchange  of  sharp  speeches  which  had  passed  between  us  during 
the  conversation  in  the  boat-house  on  that  very  morning.  How- 
ever, it  was  my  plain  duty  to  meet  a  polite  and  friendly  advance,  on 
the  part  of  one  of  my  elders,  with  a  polite  and  friendly  reply.  I  an- 
swered the  Countess,  accordingly,  in  her  own  tone  ;  and  then,  think- 
ing we  had  said  all  that  was  necessary  on  either  side,  made  an  at- 
tempt to  get  back  to  the  house. 

But  Madame  Fosco  seemed  resolved  not  to  part  with  me,  and,  to 
my  unspeakable  amazement,  resolved  also  to  talk.  Hitherto  the 
most  silent  of  women,  she  now  persecuted  me  with  fluent  convention- 
alities on  the  subject  of  married  life,  on  the  subject  of  Sir  Percival 
and  Laura,  on  the  subject  of  her  own  happiness,  on  the  subject  of 
the  late  Mr.  Fairlie's  conduct  to  her  in  the  matter  of  her  legacy,  and 
on  half  a  dozen  other  subjects  besides,  until  she  had  detained  me, 
walking  round  and  round  the  fish-pond  for  more  than  half  an  hour, 
and  had  quite  wearied  me  out.  Whether  she  discovered  this  or  not 
I  can  not  say,  but  she  stopped  as  abruptly  as  she  had  begun — looked 
toward  the  house  door,  resumed  her  icy  manner  in  a  moment — and 
dropped  my  arm  of  her  own  accord,  before  I  could  think  of  an  ex- 
cuse for  accomplishing  my  own  release  from  her. 

As  I  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered  the  hall,  I  found  myself 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  the  Count  again.  He  was  just  putting  a 
letter  into  the  post-bag. 

After  he  had  dropped  it  in,  and  had  closed  the  bag,  he  asked  me 
where  I  had  left  Madame  Fosco.  I  told  him ;  and  he  went  out  at 
the  hall  door  immediately,  to  join  his  wife.  His  manner,  when  he 
spoke  to  me,  was  so  unusually  quiet  and  subdued  that  I  turned  and 
looked  after  him,  wondering  if  he  were  ill  or  out  of  spirits. 

Why  my  next  proceeding  M^as  to  go  straight  up  to  the  post-bag, 
and  take  out  my  own  letter,  and  look  at  it  again,  with  a  vague  dis- 
trust on  me ;  and  why  the  looking  at  it  for  the  second  time  instant- 
ly suggested  the  idea  to  my  mind  of  sealing  the  envelope  for  its 
greater  security  —  are  mysteries  which  are  either  too  deep  or  too 
shallow  for  me  to  fathom.  Women,  as  every  body  knows,  constant- 
ly act  on  impulses  which  they  can  not  explain  even  to  themselves ; 
and  I  can  only  suppose  that  one  of  those  impulses  was  the  hidden 
cause  of  my  unaccountable  conduct  on  this  occasion. 

Whatever  influence  animated  me,  I  found  cause  to  congratulate 
myself  on  having  obeyed  it  as  soon  as  I  prepared  to  seal  the  letter 
in  my  own  room.  I  had  originally  closed  the  envelope  in  the  usual 
way,  by  moistening  the  adhesive  point  and  pressing  it  on  the  paper 
beneath ;  and  when  I  now  tried  it  with  my  finger,  after  a  lapse  of 
fall  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  the  envelope  opened  on  the  instant 
without  sticking  or  tearing.     Perhaps  I  had  fastened  it  insufficient- 

10* 


r 


226  THE   WOMAN   IN   WHITE. 

I3'  ?  Perhaps  there  might  have  been  some  defect  in  the  adliesive 
gum  ? 

Or,  perliaps —  No  I  it  is  quite  revolting  enough  to  feel  that  third 
conjecture  stirring  in  my  mind,  I  would  rather  not  see  it  confront- 
ing me,  in  plain  black  and  white. 

I  almost  dread  to-morrow — so  much  depends  on  my  discretion 
and  self-control.  There  are  two  precautions  at  all  events,  which  I 
am  sure  not  to  forget.  I  must  be  careful  to  keep  up  friendly  appear- 
ances with  the  Count ;  and  I  must  be  well  on  my  guard  when  the 
messenger  from  the  office  comes  here  with  the  answer  to  my  letter. 

V. 

June  11  th. — When  the  dinner  hour  brought  us  together  again, 
Count  Foscq  was  in  his  usual  excellent  spirits.  He  exerted  himself 
to  interest  and  amuse  us,  as  if  he  was  determined  to  efface  from  our 
memories  all  recollection  of  what  had  passed  in  the  library  that  af- 
ternoon. Lively  descriptions  of  his  adventures  in  traveling ;  amus- 
ing anecdotes  of  remarkable  people  whom  he  had  met  with  abroad ; 
quaint  comparisons  between  the  social  customs  of  various  nations, 
illustrated  by  examples  drawn  from  men  and  women  indiscriminate- 
ly all  over  Europe ;  humorous  confessions  of  the  innocent  follies  of 
his  own  early  life,  when  he  ruled  the  fashions  of  a  second-rate  Ital- 
ian town,  and  wTote  preposterous  romances,  on  the  French  model, 
for  a  second-rate  Italian  newspaper — all  flowed  in  succession  so 
easily  and  so  gayly  from  his  lips,  and  all  addressed  our  various  curi- 
osities and  various  interests  so  directly  and  so  delicately,  that  Laura 
and  I  listened  to  him  with  as  much  attention,  and,  inconsistent  as  it 
may  seem,  with  as  much  admiration  also,  as  Madame  Fosco  herself. 
Women  can  resist  a  man's  love,  a  man's  fame,  a  man's  personal  ap- 
pearance, and  a  man's  money ;  but  they  can  not  resist  a  man's  tongue, 
when  he  knows  how  to  talk  to  them. 

After  dinner,  while  the  favorable  impression  which  he  had  pro- 
duced on  us  was  still  vivid  in  our  minds,  the  Count  modestly  with- 
drew to  read  in  the  library. 

Laura  proposed  a  stroll  in  the  grounds  to  enjoy  the  close  of  the 
long  evening.  It  was  necessary,  in  common  politeness,  to  ask  Ma- 
dame Fosco  to  join  us ;  but  this  time  she  had  apparently  received 
her  orders  beforehand,  and  she  begged  we  would  kindly  excuse  her. 
"  The  Count  will  probably  want  a  fresh  supply  of  cigarettes,"  she 
remarked,  by  way  of  apology ;  "  and  nobody  can  make  them  to  his 
satisfaction  but  myself."  Her  cold  blue  eyes  almost  warmed  as  she 
spoke  the  words — she  looked  actually  proud  of  being  the  officiating 
medium  through  which  her  lord  and  master  composed  himself  with 
tobacco-smoke ! 

Laura  and  I  went  out  together  alone. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  227 

It  was  a  misty,  heavy  evening.  There  was  a  sense  of  blight  in  the 
flir ;  the  flowers  were  drooping  in  the  garden,  and  the  ground  was 
parched  and  dewless.  The  western  heaven,  as  we  saw  it  over  the 
quiet  trees,  was  of  a  pale  yellow  hue,  and  the  sun  was  setting  faintly 
in  a  haze.  Coming  rain  seemed  near ;  it  would  fall  probably  with 
the  fail  of  night. 

'•  Which  way  shall  we  go  ?"'  I  asked. 

''  Toward  the  lake,  Marian,  if  you  like,"  she  answered. 

"  You  seem  unaccountably  fond,  Laura,  of  that  dismal  lake." 

"  No ;  not  of  the  lake,  but  of  the  scenery  about  it.  The  sand  and 
heath  and  the  fir-trees  are  the  only  objects  I  can  discover,  in  all  tMs 
large  place,  to  remind  me  of  Limmeridge.  But  we  will  walk  in 
some  other  direction,  if  you  prefer  it." 

'"  I  have  no  favorite  walks  at  Blackwater  Park,  my  love.  One  is 
the  same  as  another  to  me.  Let  us  go  to  the  lake — we  may  find  it 
cooler  in  the  open  space  than  we  find  it  here." 

We  walked  through  the  shadowy  plantation  in  silence.  The 
heaviness  in  the  evening  air  oppressed  us  both ;  and,  when  we 
reached  the  boat-house,  we  were  glad  to  sit  down  and  rest  inside. 

A  white  fog  hung  low  over  the  lake.  The  dense  brown  line  of 
the  trees  on  the  opposite  bank  appeared  above  it,  like  a  dwarf  for- 
est floating  in  the  sky.  The  sandy  ground,  shehing  downward 
from  where  we  sat,  was  lost  mysteriously  in  the  outward  layers  of 
the  fog.  The  silence  was  horrible.  No  rustling  of  the  leaves — no 
bird's  note  in  the  wood — no  cry  of  water-fowl  from  the  pools  of  the 
hidden  lake.     Even  the  croaking  of  the  frogs  had  ceased  to-night. 

"  It  is  ver}^  desolate  and  gloomy,"  said  Laura.  '*  But  we  can  be 
more  alone  here  than  anywhere  else." 

She  spoke  quietly,  and  looked  at  the  wilderness  of  sand  and  mist 
with  steady,  thoughtful  eyes.  I  could  see  that  her  mind  was  too 
much  occupied  to  feel  the  dreary  impressions  from  without,  which 
had  fastened  themselves  already  on  mine. 

"  I  promised,  Marian,  to  tell  you  the  trath  about  my  married  life, 
instead  of  leaving  you  any  longer  to  guess  it  for  yourself,"  she  be- 
gan. "  That  secret  is  the  first  I  have  ever  had  from  you,  love,  and  I 
am  determined  it  shall  be  the  last.  I  was  silent,  as  you  know,  for 
your  sake — and  perhaps  a  little  for  my  own  sake  as  well.  It  is 
very  hard  for  a  woman  to  confess  that  the  man  to  whom  she  has 
given  her  whole  life  is  the  man,  of  all  others,  who  cares  least  for  the 
gift.  If  you  were  married  yourself,  Marian — and  especially  if  you 
were  happily  married — you  would  feel  for  me  as  no  single  woman 
can  feel,  however  kind  and  tme  she  may  be." 

What  answer  could  I  make  ?  I  could  only  take  her  hand,  and 
look  at  her  with  my  whole  heart  as  well  as  my  eyes  would  let  me. 

"  How  often,"  she  went  on,"  I  have  heard  you  laughing  over  what 


228  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

you  used  to  call  your  '  poverty  !'  how  often  you  have  made  me  mock- 
spcechcs  of  coiifjratuhition  on  my  wealth  I  Oh,  Marian,  never  laugh 
again.  Thank  God  for  your  poverty — it  lias  made  you  your  own 
mistress,  and  lias  saved  you  from  the  lot  that  has  fallen  on  mey 

A  sad  beginning  on  the  lips  of  a  young  wife  I — sad  in  its  quiet, 
plain-spoken  truth.  The  few  days  we  had  all  passed  together  at 
Blackwater  Park  had  been  many  enough  to  show  me — to  show  any 
one — what  her  husband  had  married  her  for. 

"You  shall  not  be  distressed,"  she  said,  "by  hearing  how  soon 
my  disajipointments  and  my  trials  began  —  or  even  by  knowing 
what  they  were.  It  is  bad  enough  to  have  them  on  my  memory. 
If  I  tell  you  how  he  received  the  first,  and  last,  attempt  at  remon- 
strance that  I  ever  made,  you  will  know  how  he  has  always  treated 
me,  as  well  as  if  I  had  described  it  in  so  many  words.  It  was  one 
day  at  Rome,  when  we  had  ridden  out  together  to  the  tomb  of  Ce- 
cilia Metella.  The  sky  was  calm  and  lovely — and  the  grand  old 
ruin  looked  beautiful — and  the  remembrance  that  a  husband's  love 
had  raised  it  in  the  old  time  to  a  wife's  memory,  made  me  feel  more 
tenderly  and  more  anxiously  toward  my  husband  than  I  had  ever 
felt  yet.  '  Would  you  build  such  a  tomb  for  me,  Percival  ?'  I  asked 
him.  '  You  said  you  loved  me  dearly,  before  we  were  married ;  and 
yet,  since  that  time — '  I  could  get  no  further.  Marian  !  he  was  not 
even  looking  at  me  !  I  pulled  down  my  veil,  thinking  it  best  not  to 
let  him  see  that  the  tears  were  in  my  eyes.  I  fancied  he  had  not 
paid  any  attention  to  me  ;  but  he  had.  He  said, '  Come  away,'  and 
laughed  to  himself  as  he  helped  me  on  to  my  horse.  He  mounted 
his  own  horse ;  and  laughed  again  as  we  rode  away.  '  If  I  do  build 
you  a  tomb,'  he  said,  '  it  will  be  done  with  your  own  money.  I 
wonder  whether  Cecilia  Metella  had  a  fortune,  and  paid  for  hers.' 
I  made  no  reply  —  how  could  I,  when  I  was  crying  behind  my 
veil?  'Ah,  you  light-complexioned  women  are  all  sulky,'  he  said. 
'  What  do  you  want  ?  compliments  and  soft  speeches  ?  Well  I  I'm 
in  a  good  humor  this  morning.  Consider  the  compliments  paid, 
and  the  speeches  said.'  Men  little  know,  when  they  say  hard 
things  to  us,  how  well  we  remember  them,  and  how  much  harm 
they  do  us.  It  would  have  been  better  for  me  if  I  had  gone  on 
crying;  but  his  contempt  dried  up  my  tears,  and  hardened  my 
heart.  From  that  time,  Marian,  I  never  checked  myself  again  in 
thinking  of  Walter  Ilartright.  I  let  the  memory  of  those  happy 
days,  when  we  were  so  fond  of  each  other  in  secret,  come  back  and 
comfort  me.  What  else  had  I  to  look  to  for  consolation  ?  If  we 
liad  been  together,  you  would  have  helped  me  to  better  things.  I 
know  it  was  wrong,  darling — but  tell  me  if  I  was  wrong,  without 
any  excuse." 

I  was  obliged  to  turn  my  face  from  her.     ''  Don't  ask  me  !"  I  said. 


THE    AVOMAX    IN    WHITE.  229 

"  Have  I  suflfered  as  you  have  sufiered  ?  "What  right  have  I  to  de- 
cide ?" 

"  I  used  to  think  of  him,"  she  pursued,  dropping  her  voice,  and 
moving  closer  to  me — ''  I  used  to  think  of  him,  when  Percival  left 
me  alone  at  night,  to  go  among  the  Opera  people.  I  used  to  fancy 
what  I  might  have  been,  if  it  had  pleased  God  to  bless  me  with 
poverty,  and  if  I  had  been  his  wife.  I  used  to  see  myself  in  my 
neat  cheap  gown,  sitting  at  home  and  waiting  for  him,  while  he 
was  earning  our  bread — sitting  at  home  and  working  for  him,  and 
loving  him  all  the  better  because  I  had  to  work  for  him — seeing 
him  come  in  tired,  and  taking  off  his  hat  and  coat  for  him — and, 
Marian,  pleasing  him  with  little  dishes  at  dinner  that  I  had  learned 
to  make  for  his  sake. — Oh  I  I  hope  he  is  never  lonely  enough  and 
sad  enough  to  think  of  me  and  see  me,  as  I  have  thought  of  him 
and  seen  him  !'"' 

As  she  said  those  melancholy  words,  all  the  lost  tenderness  re- 
turned to  her  voice,  and  all  the  lost  beauty  trembled  back  into  her 
face.  Her  eyes  rested  as  lovingly  on  the  blighted,  solitary,  ill- 
omened  view  before  us,  as  if  they  saw  the  friendly  hills  of  Cumber- 
land in  the  dim  and  threatening  sky. 

"  Don't  speak  of  Walter  any  more,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  I  could  con- 
trol myself.  ''  Oh,  Laura,  spare  us  both  the  wretchedness  of  talking 
of  him,  now  I" 

She  roused  herself,  and  looked  at  me  tenderly. 

"  I  would  rather  be  silent  about  him  forever,"  she  answered, 
"  than  cause  you  a  moment's  pain." 

"  It  is  in  your  interests,"  I  pleaded  ;  "  it  is  for  your  sake  that  I 
speak.     If  your  husband  heard  you — " 

"  It  would  not  surprise  him,  if  he  did  hear  me." 

She  made  that  strange  reply  with  a  weary  calmness  and  coldness. 
The  change  in  her  manner,  when  she  gave  the  answer,  startled  me 
almost  as  much  as  the  answer  itself. 

"  Not  surprise  him  !"  I  repeated.  '•  Laura  !  remember  what  you 
are  saying — you  frighten  me  !" 

"  It  is  true,"  she  said — "  it  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you  to-day, 
when  we  were  talking  in  your  room.  My  only  secret  when  I  open- 
ed my  heart  to  him  at  Limmeridge,  was  a  harmless  secret,  Marian — 
••^  I  said  so  yourself.  The  name  was  all  I  kept  from  him — and  he 
Mis  discovered  it." 

I  heard  her  ;  but  I  could  say  nothing.  Her  last  words  had  killed 
tlie  little  hope  that  still  lived  in  me. 

"  It  happened  at  Rome,"  she  went  on,  as  wearily  calm  and  cold 
as  ever.  '-  We  were  at  a  little  party,  given  to  the  English  by  some 
friends  of  Sir  Percival's — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Markland.  Mrs.  Markland 
had  the  reputation  of  sketching  very  beautifully  ;  and  some  of  the 


230  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

guests  prevailed  on  her  to  show  us  her  drawings.  We  all  admired 
them — but  something  I  said  attracted  her  attention  particularly  to 
me.  'Surely  you  draw  yourself?'  she  asked.  'I  used  to  draw  a 
little  once,'  I  answered, '  but  I  have  given  it  up.'  '  If  you  have  once 
dravf  n,'  she  said, '  you  may  take  to  it  again  one  of  these  days  ;  and, 
if  you  do,  I  wish  you  would  let  me  recommend  you  a  master,'  I 
said  nothing — you  know  why,  Marian — and  tried  to  change  the  con- 
versation. But  Mrs.  Markland  persisted.  '  I  have  had  all  sorts  of 
teachers,'  she  went  on  ;  '  but  the  best  of  all,  the  most  intelligent  and 
the  most  attentive,  was  a  Mr.  Hartright.  If  you  ever  take  up  your 
drawing  again,  do  try  him  as  a  master.  He  is  a  young  man — mod- 
est and  gentleman-like — I  am  sure  you  w^ill  like  him.'  Think  of 
those  words  being  spoken  to  me  publicly,  in  the  presence  of  stran- 
gers— strangers  who  had  been  invited  to  meet  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom !  I  did  all  I  could  to  control  myself— I  said  nothing,  and 
looked  down  close  at  the  drawings.  When  I  ventured  to  raise  my 
head  again,  my  eyes  and  my  husband's  eyes  met ;  and  I  knew,  by 
his  look,  that  my  face  had  betrayed  me.  '  We  will  see  about  Mr. 
Hartright,'  he  said,  looking  at  me  all  the  time, '  when  we  get  back 
to  England.  I  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Markland — I  think  Lady  Glyde 
is  sure  to  like  him.'  He  laid  an  emphasis  on  the  last  words  which 
made  my  cheeks  burn,  and  set  my  heart  beating  as  if  it  would  stifle 
me.  Nothing  more  was  said — we  came  away  early.  He  was  silent 
in  the  carriage,  driving  back  to  the  hotel.  He  helped  me  out,  and 
followed  me  up  stairs  as  usual.  But  the  moment  we  were  in  the 
drawing-room,  he  locked  the  door,  pushed  me  down  into  a  chair, 
and  stood  over  me  with  his  hands  on  my  shoulders.  '  Ever  since 
that  morning  when  you  made  your  audacious  confession  to  me  at 
Limmeridge,'  he  said, '  I  have  wanted  to  find  out  the  man ;  and  I 
found  him  in  your  face,  to-night.  Your  drawing-master  was  the 
man  ;  and  his  name  is  Hartright.  You  shall  repent  it,  and  he  shall 
repent  it,  to  the  last  hour  of  your  lives.  Now  go  to  bed,  and  dream 
of  him,  if  you  like — with  the  marks  of  my  horsewhip  on  his  shoul- 
ders.' Whenever  he  is  angry  with  me  now,  he  refers  to  what  I  ac- 
knowledged to  him  in  your  presence,  with  a  sneer  or  a  threat.  I 
have  no  power  to  prevent  him  from  putting  his  own  horrible  con- 
struction on  the  confidence  I  placed  in  him.  I  have  no  influence  to 
make  him  believe  me,  or  to  keep  him  silent.  You  looked  surprised, 
to-day,  when  you  heard  him  tell  me  that  I  had  made  a  virtue  of 
necessity  in  marrying  him.  You  will  not  be  surprised  again,  when 
you  hear  him  repeat  it,  the  next  time  he  is  out  of  temper — Oh,  Ma- 
rian !  don't  I  don't !  you  hurt  me  I" 

I  had  caught  her  in  my  arms  ;  and  the  sting  and  torment  of  my 
remorse  had  closed  them  round  her  like  a  vise.  Yes  I  my  remorse. 
The  white  despair  of  Walter's  face,  when  my  cruel  words  struck 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  231 

him  to  tlie  heart  in  the  summer-house  at  Limmeridge,  rose  before 
me  in  mute,  unendurable  reproach.  My  hand  had  pointed  the  way 
which  led  the  man  my  sister  loved,  step  by  step,  far  from  his  coun- 
try and  his  friends.  Between  those  two  young  hearts  1  had  stood, 
to  sunder  them  forever,  the  one  from  the  other — and  his  life  and  her 
life  lay  wasted  before  me,  alike,  in  witness  of  the  deed.  I  had  done 
this  ;  and  done  it  for  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 
For  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 

I  heard  her  speaking,  and  I  knew  by  the  tone  of  her  voice  that 
she  was  comforting  me — J,  who  deserved  nothing  but  the  reproach 
of  her  silence  !  How  long  it  was  before  I  mastered  the  absorbing 
misery  of  my  own  thoughts,  I  can  not  tell.  I  was  first  conscious 
that  she  was  kissing  me  ;  and  then  my  eyes  seemed  to  wake  on  a 
sudden  to  their  sense  of  outward  things,  and  I  knew  that  I  was 
looking  mechanically  straight  before  me  at  the  prospect  of  the 
lake. 

''  It  is  late,"  I  heard  her  whisper.  "  It  will  be  dark  in  the  planta- 
tion." She  shook  my  arm,  and  repeated,  "  Marian  I  it  will  be  dark 
in  the  plantation." 

''  Give  me  a  minute  longer,"  I  said — "  a  minute,  to  get  better  in." 

I  was  afraid  to  trust  myself  to  look  at  her  yet ;  and  I  kept  my 
eyes  fixed  on  the  view. 

It  iras  late.  The  dense  brown  line  of  trees  in  the  sky  had  faded 
in  the  gathering  darkness,  to  the  faint  resemblance  of  a  long  wreath 
of  smoke.  The  mist  over  the  lake  below  had  stealthily  enlarged, 
and  advanced  on  us.  The  silence  was  as  breathless  as  ever — but 
the  horror  of  it  had  gone,  and  the  solemn  mystery  of  its  stillness 
was  all  that  remained. 

"  We  are  far  from  the  house."  she  whispered.     "  Let  us  go  back." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  turned  her  face  from  me  toward  the 
entrance  of  the  boat-house. 

''Marian'."  she  said,  trembling  violently.  ''Do  you  see  nothing? 
Look  I" 

"  Where  ?" 

"  Down  there,  below  us." 

She  pointed.     My  eyes  followed  her  hand ;  and  I  saw  it  too. 

A  living  figure  was  moving  over  the  waste  of  heath  in  the  dis- 
tance. It  crossed  our  range  of  view  from  the  boat-house,  and  pass- 
ed darkly  along  the  outer  edge  of  the  mist.  It  stopped  far  off,  in 
front  of  us — waited — and  passed  on ;  moving  slowly,  with  the  white 
cloud  of  mist  behind  it  and  above  it — slowly,  slowly,  till  it  glided  by 
the  edge  of  the  boat-house,  and  we  saw  it  no  more. 

We  were  both  unnerved  by  what  had  passed  between  us  that 
evening.     Some  minutes  elapsed  before  Laura  would  venture  into 


282  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

the  plantation,  and  before  I  could  make  up  my  mind  to  lead  her 
back  to  the  house. 

"  Was  it  a  man  or  a  Avoman  V  she  asked,  in  a  whisper,  as  we 
moved,  at  last,  into  the  dark  dampness  of  the  outer  air, 

"  I  am  not  certain." 

"  Which  do  you  think  ?" 

"  It  looked  like  a  woman." 

"  I  was  afraid  it  was  a  man  in  a  long  cloak." 

''  It  may  be  a  man.   In  this  dim  light  it  is  not  possible  to  be  certain." 

'*  Wait,  Marian  I  Fm  frightened — I  don't  see  the  path.  Suppose 
the  figure  should  follow  us  V 

"  Not  at  all  likely,  Laura.  There  is  really  nothing  to  be  alarmed 
about.  The  shores  of  the  lake  are  not  far  from  the  village,  and  they 
are  free  to  any  one  to  walk  on,  by  day  or  night.  It  is  only  wonder- 
ful we  have  seen  no  living  creature  there  before." 

We  were  now  in  the  plantation.  It  was  very  dark — so  dark  that 
we  found  some  difficulty  in  keeping  the  path.  I  gave  Laura  my 
arm,  and  we  walked  as  fast  as  we  could  on  our  way  back. 

Before  we  were  half-way  through  she  stopped,  and  forced  me  to 
stop  with  her.     She  was  listening. 

''  Hush,"  she  whispered.     "  I  heai*  something  behind  us." 

''  Dead  leaves,"  I  said,  to  cheer  her,  "  or  a  twig  blown  off  the  trees." 

"  It  is  summer-time,  Marian ;  and  there  is  not  a  breath  of  wind. 
Listen !" 

I  heard  the  sound  too — a  sound  like  a  light  footstep  following  us, 

''  No  matter  who  it  is,  or  what  it  is,"  I  said ;  "  let  us  walk  on.  In 
another  minute,  if  there  is  any  thing  to  alarm  us,  we  shall  be  near 
enough  to  the  house  to  be  heard." 

We  went  on  quickly — so  quickly  that  Laura  was  breathless  by 
the  time  we  were  nearly  through  the  plantation,  and  within  sight 
of  the  lighted  windows. 

I  waited  a  moment,  to  give  her  breathing-time.  Just  as  we  were 
about  to  proceed,  she  stopped  me  again,  and  signed  to  me  with  her 
hand  to  listen  once  more.  We  both  heard  distinctly  a  long,  heavy 
sigh  behind  us,  in  the  black  depths  of  the  trees. 

''  Who's  there  ?''  I  called  out. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Who's  there  ?"  I  repeated. 

An  instant  of  silence  followed ;  and  then  we  heard  the  light  fall 
of  the  footsteps  again,  fainter  and  fainter — sinking  away  into  the 
darkness — sinking,  sinking,  sinking — till  they  were  lost  in  the  si- 
lence. 

We  hurried  out  from  the  trees  to  the  open  Inwn  beyond ;  crossed 
it  rapidly ;  and  without  another  word  passing  between  us,  reached 
the  house. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  233 

In  the  light  of  the  hall-lamp,  Laura  looked  at  mc,  with  white 
cheeks  and  startled  eyes. 

"I  am  half  dead  with  fear,"  she  said.  "Who  could  it  have 
been  V 

"  We  will  try  to  guess  to-morrow,"  I  replied.  "  In  the  mean  time, 
say  nothing  to  any  one  of  what  we  have  heard  and  seen." 

**'  Why  not  ?" 

"Because  silence  is  safe — and  we  have  need  of  safety  in  this 
house." 

I  sent  Laura  up  stairs  immediately — waited  a  minute  to  take  off 
my  hat  and  put  my  hair  smooth — and  then  went  at  once  to  make 
my  first  investigations  in  the  library,  on  pretense  of  searching  for  a 
book. 

There  sat  the  Count,  filling  out  the  largest  easy-chair  in  the 
house ;  smoking  and  reading  calmly,  with  his  feet  on  an  ottoman, 
his  cravat  across  his  knees,  and  his  shirt  collar  wide  open.  And 
there  sat  Madame  Fosco,  like  a  quiet  child,  on  a  stool  by  his  side, 
making  cigarettes.  Neither  husband  nor  wife  could,  by  any  possi- 
bility, have  been  out  late  that  evening,  and  have  just  got  back  to 
the  house  in  a  hurry.  I  felt  that  my  object  in  visiting  the  library 
was  answered  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on  them. 

Count  Fosco  rose  in  polite  confusion,  and  tied  his  cravat  on  when 
I  entered  the  room. 

"  Pray  don't  let  me  disturb  you,"  I  said.  "  I  have  only  come  here 
to  get  a  book." 

"  All  unfortunate  men  of  my  size  suflfer  from  the  heat,"  said  the 
Count,  refreshing  himself  gravely  with  a  large  green  fan.  "  I  wish 
I  could  change  places  with  my  excellent  wife.  She  is  as  cool  at  this 
moment  as  a  fish  in  the  pond  outside." 

The  Countess  allowed  herself  to  thaw  under  the  influence  of  her 
husband's  quaint  comparison.  "  I  am  never  warm,  Miss  Halcombe," 
she  remarked,  with  the  modest  air  of  a  woman  who  was  confessing 
to  one  of  her  own  merits. 

"  Have  you  and  Lady  Glyde  been  out  this  evening  ?"  asked  the 
Count,  while  I  was  taking  a  book  trom  the  shelves,  to  preserve  ap- 
pearances. 

"  Yes ;  we  went  out  to  get  a  little  air." 

"May  I  ask  in  what  direction  ?" 

"  In  the  direction  of  the  lake — as  far  as  the  boat-house." 

"  Aha  ?     As  far  as  the  boat-house  ?" 

Under  other  circumstances,  I  might  have  resented  his  curiosity. 
But  to-night  I  hailed  it  as  another  proof  that  neither  he  nor  his  wife 
were  connected  with  the  mysterious  appearance  at  the  lake. 

"  Xo  more  adventures,  I  suppose,  this  evening  ?"  he  went  on. 
"  No  more  discoveries,  like  your  discovery  of  the  wounded  dog  ?" 


234  THE    WOilAN    IN    WHITE. 

lie  fixed  Ills  iinliitliomable  gray  ej-es  on  me,  witli  that  cold,  clear, 
irresistible  glitter  in  them,  whicb  always  forces  me  to  look  at  him, 
and  always  makes  me  uneasy,  while  I  do  look.  An  unutterable  sus- 
picion that  his  mind  is  prying  into  mine,  overcomes  me  at  these 
times ;  and  it  overcame  me  now. 

"  No,"  I  said,  shortly ;  ''  no  adventures — no  discoveries." 

I  tried  to  look  away  from  him,  and  leave  the  room.  Strange  as  it 
seems,  I  hardly  think  I  should  have  succeeded  in  the  attempt,  if 
Madame  Fosco  had  not  helped  me  by  causing  him  to  move  and  look 
aw^ay  first. 

"  Count,  you  are  keeping  Miss  Ilalcombe  standing,"  she  said. 

The  moment  he  turned  round  to  get  me  a  chair,  I  seized  my  op- 
portunity — thanked  him — made  my  excuses — and  slipped  out. 

An  hour  later,  when  Laura's  maid  happened  to  be  in  her  mistress's 
room,  I  took  occasion  to  refer  to  the  closeness  of  the  night,  with  a 
view  to  ascertaining  next  how^  the  servants  had  been  passing  their 
time. 

"  Have  you  been  suffering  much  from  the  heat,  down  stairs  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  No,  miss,"  said  the  girl ;  "  we  have  not  felt  it  to  speak  of" 

"  You  have  been  out  in  the  woods,  then,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Some  of  us  thought  of  going,  miss.  But  cook  said  she  should 
take  her  chair  into  the  cool  court-yard,  outside  the  kitchen  door ; 
and,  on  second  thoughts,  all  the  rest  of  us  took  our  chairs  out  there 
too." 

The  housekeeper  was  now  the  only  person  who  remained  to  be 
accounted  for. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Michelson  gone  to  bed  yet  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  should  think  not,  miss,"  said  the  girl,  smiling.  "  Mrs.  Michel- 
son  is  more  likely  to  be  getting  up,  just  now,  than  going  to  bed." 

"  Why  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Has  Mrs.  Michelson  been  taking 
to  her  bed  in  day-time  ?" 

"No,  miss;  not  exactly,  but  the  next  thing  to  it.  She's  been 
asleep  all  the  evening,  on  the  sofa  in  her  own  room." 

Putting  together  wiiat  I  observed  for  myself  in  the  library  and 
■what  I  have  just  heard  from  Laura's  maid,  one  conclusion  seems  in- 
evitable. The  figure  we  saw  at  the  lake  -was  not  the  figure  of  Ma- 
dame Fosco,  of  her  husband,  or  of  any  of  the  servants.  The  foot- 
steps we  heard  behind  us  were  not  the  footsteps  of  any  one  be- 
longing to  the  house. 

Who  could  it  have  been  ? 

It  seems  useless  to  inquire.  I  can  not  even  decide  whether  the 
figure  was  a  man's  or  a  w^oman's.  I  can  only  say  that  I  think  it  vraa 
a  woman's. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  235 

June  18th. — The  misery  of  self-reproach  Trhich  I  suffered  yesterday 
evening,  on  hearing  what  Lanra  told  me  in  the  boat-house,  returned 
in  the  loneliness  of  the  night,  and  kept  me  waking  and  wretched  for 
hours. 

I  lighted  my  candle  at  last,  and  searched  through  my  old  journals 
to  see  what  my  share  in  the  fatal  error  of  her  marriage  had  really 
been,  and  what  I  might  have  once  done  to  save  her  from  it.  The 
result  soothed  me  a  little — for  it  showed  that,  however  blindly  and 
ignorantly  I  acted,  I  acted  for  the  best.  Crying  generally  does  me 
harm  ;  but  it  was  not  so  last  night — I  think  it  relieved  me.  I  rose 
this  morning  with  a  settled  resolution  and  a  quiet  mind.  Nothing 
Sir  Percival  can  say  or  do  shall  ever  irritate  me  again,  or  make  me 
forget,  for  one  moment,  that  I  am  staying  here,  in  defiance  of  morti- 
fications, insults,  and  threats,  for  Laura's  service  and  for  Laura's  sake. 

The  speculations  in  which  we  might  have  indulged,  this  morning, 
on  the  subject  of  the  figure  at  the  lake  and  the  footsteps  in  the 
plantation,  have  been  all  suspended  by  a  trifling  accident  which  has 
caused  Laura  great  regret.  She  has  lost  the  little  brooch  I  gave  her 
for  a  keepsake,  on  the  day  before  her  marriage.  As  she  wore  it 
when  we  went  out  yesterday  evening,  we  can  only  suj^pose  that  it 
must  have  dropped  from  her  dress,  either  in  the  boat-house  or  on 
our  way  back.  The  servants  have  been  sent  to  search,  and  have  re- 
turned unsuccessful.  And  now  Laura  herself  has  gone  to  look  for  it. 
Whether  she  finds  it  or  not,  the  loss  will  help  to  excuse  her  absence 
from  the  house  if  Sir  Percival  returns  before  the  letter  from  Mr,  Gil- 
more's  partner  is  placed  in  my  hands. 

One  o'clock  has  just  struck,  I  am  considering  whether  I  had 
better  wait  here  for  the  arrival  of  the  messenger  from  London,  or 
slip  away  quietly,  and  watch  for  him  outside  the  lodge  gate. 

My  suspicion  of  eveiy  body  and  every  thing  in  this  house  inclines 
me  to  think  that  the  second  plan  may  be  the  best.  The  Count  is 
safe  in  the  breakfast-room.  I  heard  him,  through  the  door,  as  I  ran 
up  stairs,  ten  minutes  since,  exercising  his  canary-birds  at  their 
tricks  :  ''  Come  out  on  my  little  finger,  my  pret-pret-pretties  !  Come 
out,  and  hop  up  stairs  !  One,  two,  three — and  up  !  Three,  two,  one 
— and  down  !  One,  two,  three — twit-twit-twit-tweet !"  The  birds 
burst  into  their  usual  ecstasy  of  singing,  and  the  Count  chirruped 
and  whistled  at  them  in  return,  as  if  he  was  a  bird  himself.  My 
room  door  is  open,  and  I  can  hear  the  shrill  singing  and  whistling 
at  this  very  moment.  If  I  am  really  to  slip  out,  w^ithout  being  ob- 
served— now  is  my  time. 

Four  o'docTc. — The  three  hours  that  have  passed  since  I  made  my 


236  THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE. 

last  ontry,  liave  turned  tlie  whole  march  of  events  at  Blackwatei 
Park  in  a  new  direction.  "Whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  I  can  not 
and  dure  not  decide. 

Let  me  get  back  first  to  the  place  at  which  I  left  off — or  I  shall 
lose  myself  in  the  confusion  of  my  own  thoughts. 

I  went  on,  as  I  had  proposed,  to  meet  the  messenger  with  my  let- 
ter from  London,  at  the  lodge  gate.  On  the  stairs  I  saw  no  one. 
In  the  hall  I  heard  the  Count  still  exercising  his  birds.  But  on 
crossing  the  quadrangle  outside,  I  passed  Madame  Fosco,  walking 
by  herself  in  her  ftivorite  circle,  round  and  round  the  great  fish- 
pond. I  at  once  slackened  my  pace,  so  as  to  avoid  all  appearance 
of  being  in  a  hurry ;  and  even  went  the  length,  for  caution's  sake, 
cf  inquiring  if  she  thought  of  going  out  before  lunch.  She  smiled 
at  me  in  the  friendliest  manner — said  she  preferred  remaining  near 
the  house — nodded  pleasantly — and  re-entered  the  hall.  I  looked 
back,  and  saw  that  she  had  closed  the  door  before  I  had  oj^ened  the 
wicket  by  the  side  of  the  carriage  gates. 

In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I  reached  the  lodge. 

The  lane  outside  took  a  sudden  turn  to  the  left,  ran  on  straight 
for  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  then  took  another  sharp  turn  to  the 
right  to  join  the  high-road.  Between  these  tv>'0  turns,  hidden  from 
the  lodge  on  one  side  and  from  the  way  to  the  station  on  the  other, 
I  waited,  walking  backward  and  foi-ward.  High  hedges  were  on 
either  side  of  me  ;  and  for  twenty  minutes,  by  my  watch,  I  neither 
saw  nor  heard  any  thing.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  the  sound  of  a 
carriage  caught  my  ear ;  and  I  was  met,  as  I  advanc3d  toward  the 
second  turning,  by  a  fly  from  the  railway.  I  made  a  sign  to  the 
driver  to  stop.  As  he  obeyed  me,  a  respectable-looking  man  put 
his  head  out  of  the  window  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said  ;  ''  but  am  I  right  in  supposing  that 
you  are  going  to  Blackwater  Park  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  With  a  letter  for  any  one  ?" 

"  With  a  letter  for  Miss  Halcombc,  ma'am." 

"  You  may  give  me  the  letter.     I  am  Miss  Halcombe." 

The  man  touched  his  hat,  got  out  of  the  fly  immediately,  and  gave 
me  the  letter. 

I  opened  it  at  once,  and  read  these  lines.  I  copy  them  here, 
thinking  it  best  to  destroy  the  original  for  caution's  sake. 

"  Deaii  Madam, — Your  letter  received  this  morning  has  caused 
me  very  great  anxiety.  I  will  reply  to  it  as  briefly  and  plainly  as 
possible. 

"  My  careful  consideration  of  the  statement  made  by  yourself,  and 
my  knowledge  of  Lady  Glyde's  position,  as  defined  in  the  settle- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  237 

ment,  lead  me,  I  regret  to  say,  to  the  conclusion  that  a  loan  of  the 
trust  money  to  Sir  Percival  (or,  in  other  words,  a  loan  of  some  por- 
tion of  the  twenty  thousand  pounds  of  Lady  Gh^de's  fortune)  is  in 
contemplation,  and  that  she  is  made  a  party  to  the  deed,  in  order  to 
secure  her  approval  of  a  flagrant  breach  of  trust,  and  to  have  her 
signature  produced  against  her,  if  she  should  complain  hereafter. 
It  is  impossible,  on  any  other  supposition,  to  account,  situated  as  she 
is,  for  her  execution  to  a  deed  of  any  kind  being  wanted  at  all. 

"  In  the  event  of  Lady  Glyde's  signing  such  a  document  as  I  am 
compelled  to  suppose  the  deed  in  question  to  be,  her  trustees  would 
be  at  liberty  to  advance  money  to  Sir  Percival  out  of  her  twenty 
thousand  pounds.  If  the  amount  so  lent  should  not  be  paid  back, 
and  if  Lady  Glyde  should  have  children,  their  fortune  will  then  be 
diminished  by  the  sum,  large  or  small,  so  advanced.  In  plainer 
terms  still,  the  transaction,  for  any  thing  that  Lady  Glyde  knows  to 
the  contrary,  may  be  a  fi-aud  upon  her  unborn  children. 

"  Under  these  serious  circumstances,  I  would  recommend  Lady 
Glyde  to  assign  as  a  reason  for  withholding  her  signature,  that  she 
wishes  the  deed  to  be  first  submitted  to  myself,  as  her  family  solic- 
itor (in  the  absence  of  my  partner,  Mr.  Gilmore).  No  reasonable  ob- 
jection can  be  made  to  taking  this  course — for,  if  the  transaction  is 
an  honorable  one,  there  will  necessarily  be  no  difficulty  in  my  giv- 
ing my  approval. 

''  Sincerely  assuring  you  of  my  readiness  to  afford  any  additional 
help  or  advice  that  may  be  wanted,  I  beg  to  remain,  Madam,  your 
faithful  servant,  Willi a:m  Kyrle.-' 

I  read  this  kind  and  sensible  letter  very  thankfully.  It  supplied 
Laura  with  a  reason  for  objecting  to  the  signature  which  was  unan- 
swerable, and  which  we  could  both  of  us  understand.  The  messen- 
ger waited  near  me  while  I  was  reading,  to  receive  his  directions 
when  I  had  done. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  say  that  I  understand  the  letter, 
and  that  I  am  very  much  obliged  ?"  I  said.  "  There  is  no  other  re- 
ply necessaiy  at  present." 

Exactly  at  the  moment  when  I  was  speaking  those  words,  hold- 
ing the  letter  open  in  my  hand.  Count  Fosco  turned  the  corner  of 
the  lane  from  the  high  -  road,  and  stood  before  me  as  if  he  had 
sprung  up  out  of  the  earth. 

The  suddenness  of  his  appearance,  in  the  very  last  place  under 
heaven  in  which  I  should  have  expected  to  see  him,  took  me  com- 
pletely by  sur]:)rise.  The  messenger  wished  me  good-morning,  and 
got  into  the  fly  again.  I  could  not  say  a  word  to  him — I  was  not 
even  able  to  return  his  bow.  The  conviction  that  I  was  discovered 
—and  by  that  man,  of  all  others — absolutely  petrified  me. 


238  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"Are  you  going  })ack  to  the  house,  Miss  Halcombe  V  he  inquhed 
without  showing  the  least  surprise  on  his  side,  and  witliout  even 
looking  after  the  fly,  which  drove  off  while  he  was  speaking  to  me. 

I  collected  mj'self  sufficiently  to  make  a  sign  in  the  affirmative. 

"  I  am  going  back  too,"  he  said.  "  Pray  allow  me  the  pleasure 
of  accompanying  you.  Will  you  take  my  arm  ?  You  look  surprised 
at  seeing  me  I" 

I  took  his  arm.  The  first  of  my  scattered  senses  that  came  back 
was  the  sense  that  warned  me  to  sacrifice  any  thing  rather  than 
make  an  enemy  of  him. 

"  You  look  surjjrised  at  seeing  me !"  he  repeated,  in  his  quietly 
pertinacious  way. 

"  I  thought.  Count,  I  heard  you  with  your  birds  in  the  breakfast- 
room,"  I  answered,  as  quietly  and  firmly  as  I  could. 

"  Surely.  But  my  little  feathered  children,  dear  lady,  arc  only  too 
like  other  children.  They  have  their  days  of  perversity ;  and  this 
morning  was  one  of  them.  My  wife  came  in  as  I  was  putting  them 
back  in  their  cage,  and  said  she  had  left  you  going  out  alone  for  a 
walk.     You  told  her  so,  did  you  not  V 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well,  Miss  Halcombe,  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  you  was  too 
great  a  temptation  for  me  to  resist.  At  my  age,  there  is  no  harm  in 
confessing  so  much  as  that,  is  there  ?  I  seized  my  hat,  and  set  off" 
to  off'er  myself  as  your  escort.  Even  so  fat  an  old  man  as  Fosco  is 
surely  better  than  no  escort  at  all  ?  I  took  the  wrong  path — I  came 
back  in  despair — and  here  I  am,  ariived  (may  I  say  it  ?)  at  the  height 
of  my  wishes." 

He  talked  on  in  this  complimentary  strain,  with  a  fluency  which 
left  me  no  exertion  to  make  beyond  the  effort  of  maintaining  my 
composure.  He  never  referred  in  the  most  distant  manner  to  what 
he  had  seen  in  the  lane,  or  to  the  letter  which  I  still  had  in  my  hand. 
This  ominous  discretion  helped  to  convince  me  that  he  must  have 
surprised,  by  the  most  dishonorable  means,  the  secret  of  my  appli- 
cation, in  Laura's  interest,  to  the  lawyer ;  and  that,  having  now  as- 
sured himself  of  the  private  manner  in  which  I  had  received  the 
answer,  he  had  discovered  enough  to  suit  his  purposes,  and  was 
only  bent  on  trying  to  quiet  the  suspicions  which  he  knew  he  must 
have  aroused  in  my  mind.  I  was  wise  enough,  under  these  circum- 
stances, not  to  attempt  to  deceive  him  by  plausible  explanations — 
and  woman  enough,  notwithstanding  my  dread  of  him,  to  feel  as  if 
my  hand  was  tainted  by  resting  on  his  arm. 

On  the  drive  in  front  of  the  house  we  met  the  dog-cart  being  taken 
round  to  the  stables.  Sir  Percival  had  just  returned.  He  came  out 
to  meet  us  at  the  house  door.  Whatever  other  results  his  journey 
might  have  had,  it  hatl  not  ended  in  softening  his  savage  temper. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  239 

"  Oh  I  here  are  two  of  you  come  back,"  he  said,  with  a  lowering 
face.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  the  house  being  deserted  in  this 
way  ?     Where  is  Lady  Glyde  V 

I  told  him  of  the  loss  of  the  brooch,  and  said  that  Laura  had  gone 
into  the  plantation  to  look  for  it. 

"  Brooch  or  no  brooch,"  he  growled,  sulkily,  "  I  recommend  her 
not  to  forget  her  appointment  in  the  library  this  afternoon.  I  shall 
expect  to  see  her  in  half  an  hour." 

I  took  my  hand  from  the  Count's  arm,  and  slowly  ascended  the 
steps.  He  honored  me  with  one  of  his  magnificent  bows ;  and  then 
addressed  himself  gayly  to  the  scowling  master  of  the  house. 

"  Tell  me,  Percival,"  he  said,  "  have  you  had  a  pleasant  drive  ? 
And  has  your  pretty  shining  Brown  Molly  come  back  at  all  tired  ?" 

"  Brown  Molly  be  hanged — and  the  drive  too  !    I  want  my  lunch." 

"And  I  want  five  minutes'  talk  with  you,  Percival,  first,"  returned 
the  Count — "  five  minutes  talk,  my  friend,  here  on  the  grass." 

"What  about?" 

"About  business  that  very  much  concerns  you." 

I  lingered  long  enough,  in  joassing  through  the  hall  door,  to  hear 
this  question  and  answer,  and  to  see  Sir  Percival  thrust  his  hands 
into  his  pockets  in  sullen  hesitation. 

"  If  you  want  to  badger  me  with  any  more  of  your  infernal  scru- 
ples," he  said,  "  I,  for  one,  won't  hear  them.     I  want  my  lunch  I" 

"  Come  out  here  and  speak  to  me,"  repeated  the  Count,  still  per- 
fectly  uninfluenced  by  the  rudest  speech  that  his  friend  could  make 
to  him. 

Sir  Percival  descended  the  steps.  The  Count  took  him  by  the 
arm,  and  walked  him  away  gently.  The  "  business,"  I  was  sure,  re- 
ferred to  the  question  of  the  signature.  They  were  speaking  of 
Laura  and  of  me,  beyond  a  doubt.  I  felt  heart-sick  and  faint  with 
anxiety.  It  might  be  of  the  last  importance  to  both  of  us  to  know 
what  they  were  saying  to  each  other  at  that  moment — and  not  one 
word  of  it  could  by  any  possibility  reach  my  ears. 

I  walked  about  the  house,  from  room  to  room,  with  the  lawyer's 
letter  in  my  bosom  (I  was  afraid,  by  this  time,  even  to  trust  it  under 
lock  and  key),  till  the  oppression  of  my  suspense  half  maddened  me. 
There  were  no  signs  of  Laura's  return ;  and  I  thought  of  going  oui 
to  look  for  her.  But  my  strength  was  so  exhausted  by  the  trials  and 
anxieties  of  the  morning,  that  the  heat  of  the  day  quite  oveipowered 
me ;  and,  after  an  attempt  to  get  to  the  door,  I  was  obliged  to  return 
to  the  drawing-room,  and  lie  down  on  the  nearest  sofa  to  recover. 

I  was  just  composing  myself,  when  the  door  opened  softly,  and  the 
Count  looked  in. 

"  A  thousand  pardons,  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said ;  "  I  only  venture 
to  disturb  you  because  I  am  the  bearer  of  good  news.     Percival — 


240  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

wlio  is  capricious  in  every  thing,  as  you  know — has  seen  fit  to  alter 
his  mind,  at  tlie  last  moment ;  and  the  business  of  the  signature  is 
put  off  for  the  present.  A  great  relief  to  all  of  us,  Miss  Halcombe, 
as  I  see  with  pleasure  in  your  face.  Pray  present  my  best  respects 
and  felicitations,  when  you  mention  this  pleasant  change  of  circum- 
stances to  Lady  Glyde." 

He  left  me  before  I  had  recovered  my  astonishment.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  that  this  extraordinary  alteration  of  purpose  in  the  mat- 
ter of  the  signature  was  due  to  his  influence  ;  and  that  his  discovery 
of  my  application  to  London  yesterday,  and  of  my  having  received 
an  answer  to  it  to-day,  had  offered  him  the  means  of  interfering  with 
certain  success. 

I  felt  these  impressions ;  but  my  mind  seemed  to  share  the  ex- 
haustion of  my  body,  and  I  was  in  no  condition  to  dwell  on  them, 
with  any  useful  reference  to  the  doubtful  present,  or  the  threatening 
future.  I  tried  a  second  time  to  run  out  and  find  Laura ;  but  my 
head  was  giddy,  and  my  knees  trembled  under  me.  There  was  no 
choice  but  to  give  it  up  again,  and  return  to  the  sofa,  sorely  against 
my  will. 

The  quiet  in  the  house,  and  the  low  murmuring  hum  of  summer 
insects  outside  the  open  window,  soothed  me.  My  eyes  closed  of 
themselves;  and  I  passed  gradually  into  a  strange  condition, which 
was  not  waking — for  I  knew  nothing  of  what  was  going  on  about 
me ;  and  not  sleeping — for  I  was  conscious  of  my  own  repose.  In 
this  state,  my  fevered  mind  broke  loose  from  me,  while  my  weary 
body  was  at  rest ;  and,  in  a  trance,  or  day-dream  of  my  fancy — I 
know  not  what  to  call  it— I  saw  Walter  Hartright.  I  had  not 
thought  of  him  since  I  rose  that  morning ;  Laura  had  not  said  one 
word  to  me,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  referring  to  him — and  yet, 
I  saw  him  now,  as  plainly  as  if  the  past  time  had  returned,  and  we 
were  both  together  again  at  Limmeridge  House. 

He  appeared  to  me  as  one  among  many  other  men,  none  of  whose 
faces  I  could  plainly  discern.  They  were  all  lying  on  the  steps  of 
an  immense  ruined  temple.  Colossal  tropical  trees  —  with  rank 
creepers  twining  endlessly  about  their  trunks,  and  hideous  stone 
idols  glimmering  and  grinning  at  intervals  behind  leaves  and  stalks 
and  branches — surrounded  the  temple,  and  shut  out  the  sky,  and 
threw  a  dismal  shadow  over  the  forlorn  band  of  men  on  the  steps. 
White  exhalations  twisted  and  curled  up  stealthily  from  the  ground ; 
approached  the  men  in  wreaths,  like  smoke;  touched  them;  and 
stretched  them  out  dead,  one  by  one,  in  the  places  where  they  lay. 
An  agony  of  pity  and  fear  for  Walter  loosened  my  tongue,  and  I  im- 
plored him  to  escape.  "  Come  back  !  come  back  !"  I  said.  "  Re- 
member your  promise  to  her  and  to  me.  Come  back  to  us,  before 
the  Pestilence  reaches  you,  and  lays  you  dead  like  the  rest !" 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  241 

lie  looked  at  me,  with  an  uneartlily  quiet  in  his  face.  "  Wait," 
I'.o  said.  "  I  shall  come  back.  The  night,  when  I  met  the  lost 
"Woman  on  the  highway  was  the  night  which  set  my  life  apart  to  be 
the  instrument  of  a  Design  that  is  yet  unseen.  Here,  lost  in  the  wil- 
derness, or  there,  welcomed  back  in  the  land  of  my  birth,  I  am  still 
walking  on  the  dark  road  which  leads  me,  and  you,  and  the  sister 
of  your  love  and  mine,  to  the  unknown  Retribution  and  the  inevi- 
table End.  Wait  and  look.  The  Pestilence  which  touches  the  rest 
will  pass  ??ie." 

I  saw  him  again.  He  was  still  in  the  forest ;  and  the  numbers  of 
his  lost  companions  had  dwindled  to  very  few.  The  temple  was 
gone,  and  the  idols  were  gone — and,  in  their  place,  the  figures  of 
dark,  dwarfish  men  lurked  murderously  among  the  trees,  with  bows 
in  their  hands,  and  arrows  fitted  to  the  string.  Once  more  I  feared 
for  Walter,  and  cried  out  to  warn  him.  Once  more  he  turned  to  me, 
with  the  immovable  quiet  in  his  face.  "Another  step,"  he  said, 
"  on  the  dark  road.  Wait  and  look.  The  arrows  that  strike  the 
rest  will  spare  mey 

I  saw  him  for  the  third  time,  in  a  wrecked  ship,  stranded  on  a 
wild,  sandy  shore.  The  overloaded  boats  were  making  away  fi-om 
him  for  the  land,  and  he  alone  was  left,  to  sink  with  the  ship.  I 
cried  to  him  to  hail  the  hindmost  boat,  and  to  make  a  last  eflfort  for 
his  life.  The  quiet  face  looked  at  me  in  return,  and  the  unmoved 
A'oice  gave  me  back  the  changeless  reply.  "Another  step  on  the 
journey.  Wait  and  look.  The  Sea  which  drowns  the  rest  will 
spare  we." 

I  saw  him  for  the  last  time.  He  was  kneeling  by  a  tomb  of  white 
marble ;  and  the  shadow  of  a  veiled  woman  rose  out  of  the  grave 
beneath,  and  waited  by  his  side.  The  unearthly  quiet  of  his  face 
had  changed  to  an  unearthly  sorrow.  But  the  terrible  certainty  of 
his  words  remained  the  same.  "  Darker  and  darker,"  he  said ; 
"  farther  and  farther  yet.  Death  takes  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and 
the  young — and  spares  me.  The  Pestilence  that  wastes,  the  Arrow 
that  strikes,  the  Sea  that  drowns,  the  Grave  that  closes  over  Love 
and  Hope,  are  steps  of  my  journey,  and  take  me  nearer  and  nearer  to 
the  End." 

My  heart  sank  under  a  dread  beyond  words,  under  a  grief  beyond 
tears.  The  darkness  closed  round  the  pilgrim  at  the  marble  tomb ; 
closed  round  the  veiled  woman  from  the  grave  ;  closed  round  the 
dreamer  who  looked  on  them,     I  saw  and  heard  no  more. 

I  was  aroused  by  a  hand  laid  on  my  shoulder.     It  was  Laura's, 

She  had  dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  side  of  the  sofa.  Her  face 
was  flushed  and  agitated ;  and  her  eyes  met  mine  in  a  wild  bewil- 
dered manner.     I  started  the  instant  I  saw  her. 

"  What  has  happened  ?"  I  asked.     "  What  has  frightened  you  ?" 

11 


242  THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE. 

She  looked  round  at  the  lialf-open  door — put  her  lips  close  to  :ny 
car — and  answered  in  a  -wliisper, 

"Marian! — the  figure  at  the  lake — the  footsteps  last  night — I've 
just  seen  her  !     Fvc  just  spoken  to  her  !" 

"  Who,  for  Heaven's  sake  V 
•^"Annc  Catherick." 

I  was  so  startled  by  the  disturbance  in  Laura's  face  and  manner, 
and  so  dismayed  by  the  first  waking  impressions  of  my  dream,  that 
I  was  not  fit  to  bear  the  revelation  which  burst  upon  me  when  that 
name  passed  her  lips.  I  could  only  stand  rooted  to  the  floor,  look- 
ing at  her  in  breathless  silence. 

She  was  too  much  absorbed  by  what  had  hajjpened  to  notice  the 
effect  which  her  reply  had  produced  on  me.  "I  have  seen  Anne 
Catherick  !  I  have  spoken  to  Anne  Catherick  I"  she  repeated,  as  if 
I  had  not  heard  her.  "  Oh,  Marian,  I  have  such  things  to  tell  you  ! 
Come  away — we  may  be  interrupted  here — come  at  once  into  my 
room." 

With  those  eager  words,  she  caught  me  by  the  hand,  and  led  me 
through  the  library,  to  the  end  room  on  the  ground-floor,  which  had 
been  fitted  up  for  her  own  especial  use.  No  third  person,  except 
lier  maid,  could  have  any  excuse  for  surprising  us  here.  She  push- 
ed me  in  before  her,  locked  the  door,  and  drew  the  chintz  curtains 
that  hung  over  the  inside. 

The  strange,  stunned  feeling  which  had  taken  possession  of  me 
still  remained.  But  a  growing  conviction  that  the  complications 
which  had  long  threatened  to  gather  about  her,  and  to  gather  about 
me,  had  suddenly  closed  fast  round  us  both,  was  now  beginning  to 
penetrate  my  mind.  I  could  not  express  it  in  w'ords — I  could  hard- 
ly even  realize  it  dimly  in  my  own  thoughts.  "Anne  Catherick!" 
I  whispered  to  myself,  with  useless,  helpless  reiteration  —  "Anne 
Catherick  !'' 

Laura  drew  me  to  the  nearest  seat,  an  ottoman  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.  "  Look  !"  she  said  ;  "  look  here  !" — and  j^ointed  to  the 
bosom  of  her  dress. 

I  saw,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  lost  brooch  was  pinned  in  its 
place  again.  There  was  something  real  in  the  sight  of  it,  something 
real  in  the  touching  of  it  afterward,  which  seemed  to  steady  the 
whirl  and  confusion  in  my  thoughts,  and  to  help  me  to  compose 
myself 

"  Where  did  you  find  your  brooch  ?''  The  first  words  I  could  say 
to  her  were  the  words  which  put  that  trivial  question  at  that  im> 
portant  moment. 

"  She  found  it,  Marian." 

"  Wliere  ?" 

"On  the  floor  of  the  boat-house.     Oh,  how   shall  I  begin— how 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  243 

shall  I  tell  you  about  it !  She  talked  to  me  so  strangely— she  look- 
ed so  fearfully  ill — she  left  me  so  suddenly —  1" 

Her  voice  rose  as  the  tumult  of  her  recollections  pressed  upon 
her  mind.  The  inveterate  distrust  M'hich  weighs,  night  and  day, 
on  my  spirits  in  this  house,  instantly  roused  me  to  warn  her — just 
as  the  sight  of  the  brooch  had  roused  me  to  question  her,  the  mo- 
ment before, 

"  Speak  low,"  I  said.  "  The  vrindow  is  open,  and  the  garden- 
path  runs  beneath  it  Begin  at  the  beginning,  Laura.  Tell  me, 
word  for  word,  what  passed  between  that  woman  and  you." 

"  Shall  I  close  the  window  first  ?" 

"  No ;  only  speak  low :  only  remember  that  Anne  Catherick  is  a 
dangerous  subject  under  your  husband's  roof  Where  did  you  first 
see  her  ?" 

"  At  the  boat-house,  Marian.  I  went  out,  as  you  know,  to  find 
my  brooch ;  and  I  walked  along  the  i^ath  through  the  plantation, 
looking  down  on  the  ground  carefully  at  every  step.  In  that  way 
I  got  on,  after  a  long  time,  to  the  boat-house ;  and,  as  soon  as  I  was 
inside  it,  I  went  on  my  knees  to  hunt  over  the  floor.  I  was  still 
searching,  with  my  back  to  the  door-way,  when  I  heard  a  soft,  strange 
voice,  behind  me,  say, '  Miss  Fairlie.'  " 

"  Miss  Fail-lie !" 

"  Yes — my  old  name — the  dear,  familiar  name  that  I  thought  I 
had  parted  from  forever.  I  started  up  —  not  frightened,  the  voice 
w^as  too  kind  and  gentle  to  fi-ighten  any  body — but  very  much  sur- 
prised. There,  looking  at  me  from  the  door-way,  stood  a  woman, 
whose  face  I  never  remembered  to  have  seen  before — " 

"  How  was  she  dressed  ?" 

"  She  had  a  neat,  pretty  white  gown  on,  and  over  it  a  poor  worn 
thin  dark  shawl.  Her  bonnet  was  of  brown  straw,  as  poor  and  worn 
as  the  shawl.  I  was  struck  by  the  difference  between  her  gown  and 
the  rest  of  her  dress,  and  she  saw  that  I  noticed  it.  '  Don't  look  at 
my  bonnet  and  shawl,'  she  said,  speaking  in  a  quick,  breathless, 
sudden  way ;  '  if  I  mustn't  wear  white,  I  don't  care  what  I  wear. 
Look  at  my  gown  as  much  as  you  please  ;  I'm  not  ashamed  of  that.' 
Very  strange,  was  it  not  ?  Before  I  could  say  any  thing  to  soothe 
her,  she  held  out  one  of  her  hands,  and  I  saw  my  brooch  in  it.  I 
was  so  pleased  and  so  grateful,  that  I  went  quite  close  to  her  to  say 
what  I  really  felt.  'Are  you  thankful  enough  to  do  me  one  little 
kindness  ?'  she  asked.  '  Yes,  indeed,'  I  answered  ;  '  any  kindness  in 
my  power  I  shall  be  glad  to  show  you.'  '  Then  let  me  pin  your 
brooch  on  for  you,  now  I  have  found  it.'  Her  request  was  so  unex- 
pected, Marian,  and  she  made  it  with  such  extraordinary  eagerness, 
that  I  drew  back  a  step  or  two,  not  well  knowing  what  to  do.  '  Ah  !' 
ehe  said,  'your  mother  would  have  let  me  pin  on  the  brooch.' 


244  THE    WOMAN    IN    'WIIITE. 

There  was  something  in  her  voice  and  her  look,  as  well  as  in  her 
mentioning  my  mother  in  that  reproachful  mannei;  which  made  me 
ashamed  of  n'ly  distrust.  I  took  her  hand  with  the  brooch  in  it, 
and  put  it  up  gently  on  the  bosom  of  my  dress.  '  You  knew  my 
mother  V  I  said.  '  Was  it  veiy  long  ago  ?  have  I  ever  scon  you  be- 
fore V  Her  hands  were  busy  fastening  the  brooch :  she  stopped  and 
pressed  them  against  my  breast.  '  You  don't  remember  a  fine  spring 
day  at  Limmeridge,'  she  said, '  and  your  mother  walking  down  the 
path  that  led  to  the  school,  with  a  little  girl  on  each  side  of  her  ? 
I  have  had  nothing  else  to  think  of  since ;  and  /  remember  it.  You 
were  one  of  the  little  girls,  and  I  was  the  other.  Pretty,  clever  Miss 
Fairlie,  and  poor  dazed  Anne  Catherick  were  nearer  to  each  other 
then  than  they  are  now  1'  " 

"  Did  you  remember  her,  Laura,  when  she  told  you  her  name  ?" 

"  Yes — I  remembered  your  asking  me  about  Anne  Catherick  at 
Limmeridge,  and  your  saying  that  she  had  once  been  considered 
like  me." 

"  What  reminded  you  of  that,  Laura  ?" 

"  She  reminded  me.  While  I  was  looking  at  her,  while  she  was 
very  close  to  me,  it  came  over  my  mind  suddenly  that  we  were  like 
each  other !  Her  face  was  pale  and  thin  and  weaiy — but  the  sight 
of  it  startled  me,  as  if  it  had  been  the  sight  of  my  own  face  in  the 
glass  after  a  long  illness.  The  discovery — I  don't  know  why — gave 
me  such  a  shock,  that  I  was  perfectly  incapable  of  speaking  to  her, 
for  the  moment." 

"  Did  she  seem  hurt  by  your  silence  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  she  was  hurt  by  it.  '  You  have  not  got  your  moth- 
er's face,'  she  said,  '  or  your  mother's  heart.  Your  mothers  flice 
was  dark  ;  and  your  mother's  heart,  Miss  Fairlie,  was  the  heart  of 
an  angel.'  '  I  am  sure  I  feel  kindly  toward  you,'  I  said,  '  though  I 
may  not  be  able  to  express  it  as  I  ought.  Why  do  you  call  me  Miss 
Fairlie —  ?'  '  Because  I  love  the  name  of  Fairlie  and  hate  the  name 
of  Glyde,'  she  broke  out  violently.  I  had  seen  nothing  like  mad- 
ness in  her  before  this  ;  but  I  fancied  I  saw  it  now  in  her  eyes.  '  I 
only  thought  you  might  not  know  I  was  married,'  I  said,  remember- 
ing the  wild  letter  she  wrote  to  me  at  Limmeridge,  and  trying  to 
quiet  her.  She  sighed  bitterly,  and  turned  away  from  me.  '  Not 
know  you  were  married  !'  she  repeated.  '  I  am  here  lecause  you  are 
married.  I  am  here  to  make  atonement  to  you,  before  I  meet  your 
mother  in  the  world  beyond  the  grave.'  She  drew  farther  and  flir- 
ther  away  from  me,  till  she  was  out  of  the  boat-house  —  and  then 
she  watched  and  listened  for  a  little  while.  When  she  tunied  round 
to  speak  again,  instead  of  coming  back,  she  stopped  where  she  was, 
looking  in  at  me,  with  a  hand  on  each  side  of  the  entrance.  '  Did 
you  see  me  at  the  lake  last  night  ?'  she  said.     '  Did  you  hear  me 


THE    "VVOMAX   IN    WHITE.  245 

following  3'ou  in  the  wood  ?  I  have  been  waiting  for  days  together 
to  speak  to  you  alone— I  have  left  the  only  friend  I  have  in  the 
world,  anxious  and  frightened  about  me — I  have  risked  l^eing  shut 
up  again  in  the  mad-house — and  all  for  your  sake,  Miss  Fairlie,  all 
for  your  sake.'  Her  words  alarmed  me,  Marian ;  and  yet  there  was 
something  in  the  way  she  spoke  that  made  me  pity  her  with  all  my 
heart.  I  am  sure  my  pity  must  have  been  sincere,  for  it  made  me 
bold  enough  to  ask  the  poor  creature  to  come  in,  and  sit  down  in 
the  boat-house  by  my  side." 
"  Did  she  do  so  ?" 

"  No.  She  shook  her  head,  and  told  me  she  must  stop  where  she 
was,  to  watch  and  listen,  and  see  that  no  third  person  surjDrised  us. 
And  from  first  to  last,  there  she  waited  at  the  entmnce,  with  a  hand 
on  each  side  of  it ;  sometimes  bending  in  suddenly  to  speak  to  me ; 
sometimes  drawing  back  suddenly  to  look  about  her,  '  I  was  here 
yesterday,'  she  said, '  before  it  came  dark  ;  and  I  heard  you,  and  the 
lady  with  you,  talking  together,  I  heard  you  tell  her  about  your 
husband.  I  heard  you  say  you  had  no  influence  to  make  him  be- 
lieve you,  and  no  influence  to  keep  him  silent.  Ah !  I  knew  what 
those  words  meant ;  my  conscience  told  me  while  I  was  listening. 
Why  did  I  ever  let  you  marry  him !  Oh,  my  fear — my  mad,  misera- 
ble, wicked  fear —  1'  She  covered  up  her  face  in  her  poor  worn 
shawl,  and  moaned  and  murmured  to  herself  behind  it.  I  began 
to  be  afraid  she  might  break  out  into  some  terrible  despair  which 
neither  she  nor  I  could  master.  '  Try  to  quiet  yourself,'  I  said ;  '  try 
to  tell  me  how  you  might  have  prevented  my  marriage.'  She  took 
the  shawl  from  her  face,  and  looked  at  me  vacantly.  '  I  ought  to 
have  had  heart  enough  to  stop  at  Limmeridge,'  she  answered.  '  I 
ought  never  to  have  let  the  news  of  his  coming  there  frighten  me 
away,  I  ought  to  have  warned  you  and  saved  you  before  it  was  too 
late.  Why  did  I  only  have  courage  enough  to  write  you  that  letter  ? 
Why  did  I  only  do  harm,  when  I  wanted  and  meant  to  do  good  ? 
Oh,  my  fear — my  mad,  miserable,  wicked  fear  !'  She  repeated  those 
words  again,  and  hid  her  face  again  in  the  end  of  her  poor  worn 
shawl.     It  was  dreadful  to  see  her,  and  dreadful  to  hear  her." 

"  Surely,  Laura,  you  asked  what  the  fear  was  which  she  dwelt  on 
so  earnestly  ?" 

"  Yes ;  I  asked  that," 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?" 

"  She  asked  me,  in  return,  if  I  should  not  be  afraid  of  a  man  who 
had  shut  me  up  in  a  mad-house,  and  who  would  shut  me  up  again 
if  he  could  ?  I  said, '  Xxe  you  afraid  still  ?  Surely  you  would  not  be 
here,  if  you  were  afraid  now  ?'  '  No,'  she  said,  *•  I  am  not  afraid  now,' 
I  asked  why  not.  She  suddenly  bent  forward  into  the  boat-house, 
and  said, '  Can't  you  guess  why  V     I  shook  my  head.     '  Look  at  me,' 


246  THE    WOMAN    IS   AVIIITE. 

she  went  on.  I  told  her  I  was  grieved  to  see  that  she  looked  very 
sorrowful  and  very  ill.  She  smiled,  for  the  first  time.  '  HI  V  she  re- 
peated ;  '  I'm  dying.  You  know  why  I'm  not  afraid  of  him  now. 
Do  you  think  I  shall  meet  your  mother  in  heaven  ?  Will  she  for- 
give me,  if  I  do  V  I  was  so  shocked  and  so  startled,  that  I  could 
make  no  reply.  '  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,'  she  went  on, '  all  the 
time  I  have  been  in  hiding  from  your  husband,  all  the  time  I  lay  ill. 
My  thoughts  have  driven  me  here — I  want  to  make  atonement — I 
want  to  undo  all  I  can  of  the  harm  I  once  did.'  I  begged  her  as 
eiwnestly  as  I  could  to  tell  me  what  she  meant.  She  still  looked  at 
me  with  fixed,  vacant  eyes.  '  ShaU  I  undo  the  harm  V  she  said  to 
herself,  doubtfully.  '  You  have  friends  to  take  your  part.  If  you 
know  his  Secret,  he  will  be  afraid  of  you ;  he  won't  dare  use  you  as 
he  used  me.  He  must  treat  you  mercifully  for  his  own  sake,  if  he  is 
afraid  of  you  and  your  friends.  And  if  he  treats  you  mercifully, 
and  if  I  can  say  it  was  my  doing — '  I  listened  eagerly  for  more ; 
but  she  stopped  at  those  words." 

"  You  tried  to  make  her  go  on  ?" 

"  I  tried ;  but  she  only  drew  herself  away  from  me  again,  and 
leaned  her  face  and  arms  against  the  side  of  the  boat-house.  '  Oh  1' 
I  heard  her  say,  with  a  dreadful,  distracted  tenderness  in  her  voice, 
'  oh  !  if  I  could  only  be  buried  with  your  mother  !  If  I  could  only 
wake  at  her  side  when  the  angel's  trumpet  sounds,  and  the  graves 
give  up  their  dead  at  the  resurrection  I' — Marian  !  I  trembled  from 
head  to  foot — it  was  homble  to  hear  her.  '  But  there  is  no  hope  of 
that,'  she  said,  moving  a  little,  so  as  to  look  at  me  again ;  '  no  hope 
for  a  poor  stranger  like  me.  /  shall  not  rest  under  the  marble  cross 
that  I  washed  with  my  own  hands,  and  made  so  white  and  pure  for 
lier  sake.  Oh  no !  oh  no  !  God's  mercy,  not  man's,  will  take  me  to 
her,  where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at 
rest.'  She  spoke  those  words  quietly  and  sorrowfully,  with  a  heavy, 
hopeless  sigh ;  and  then  waited  a  little.  Her  face  was  confused  and 
troubled ;  she  seemed  to  be  thinking,  or  trying  to  think.  '  What 
was  it  I  said  just  now  V  she  asked,  after  a  while.  '  When  your  moth- 
er is  in  my  mind,  every  thing  else  goes  out  of  it.  What  was  I  say- 
ing ?  what  was  I  saying  V  I  reminded  the  poor  creature,  as  kindly 
and  delicately  as  I  could.  '  Ah  !  yes,  yes,'  she  said,  still  in  a  vacant, 
perplexed  manner.  '  You  are  helpless  with  your  wicked  husband. 
Yes.  And  I  must  do  what  I  have  come  to  do  here — I  must  make 
it  up  to  you  for  having  been  afraid  to  speak  out  at  a  better  time.' 
'  What  is  it  you  have  to  tell  me  V  I  asked.  '  The  Secret  that  your 
cruel  husband  is  afraid  of,'  she  answered.  '  I  once  threatened  him 
with  the  Secret,  and  frightened  him.  You  shall  threaten  him  witli 
the^Secret,  and  frighten  him  too.'  Her  face  darkened  ;  and  a  hard, 
angry  stare  fixed  itself  in  her  eyes.     She  began  waving  her  hand  at 


KOT  NOW,    SHE  said;  "we  aue  not  alone— we  ake  watched 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVHITE.  249 

me  in  a  vacant,  unmeaning  manner.  '  My  mother  knows  the  Se- 
cret,' she  said.  '  My  mother  has  wasted  under  the  Secret  half  her 
lifetime.  One  day,  when  I  was  grown  up,  she  said  something  to 
'iue.     And  the  next  day  your  husband — '  " 

"  Yes !  yes !  Go  on.  What  did  she  tell  you  about  your  hus- 
band ?" 

"  She  stopped  again,  Marian,  at  that  point — " 

"And  said  no  more  ?" 

"And  listened  eagerly.  'Hush!'  she  whispered,  still  waving  her 
hand  at  me.  'Hush!'  She  moved  aside  out  of  the  door-way, 
moved  slowly  and  stealthily,  step  by  step,  till  I  lost  her  past  the 
edge  of  the  boat-house." 

"  Surely  you  followed  her  ?" 

"  Yes ;  my  anxiety  made  me  bold  enough  to  rise  and  follow  her. 
Just  as  I  reached  the  entrance,  she  appeared  again,  suddenly,  round 
the  side  of  the  boat-house.  '  The  secret,'  I  whispered  to  her — '  wait 
and  tell  me  the  secret !'  She  caught  hold  of  my  arm,  and  looked  at 
me  with  wild,  frightened  eyes.  '  Not  now,'  she  said ;  '  we  are  not 
alone — we  are  watched.  Come  here  to-morrow,  at  this  time — by 
yourself— mind — by  yourself.'  She  pushed  me  roughly  into  the 
l)oat-house  again;  and  I  saw  her  no  more." 

"  Oh,  Laura,  Laura,  another  chance  lost !  If  I  had  only  been  near 
you,  she  should  not  have  escaped  us.  On  which  side  did  you  lose 
sight  of  her  ?" 

"  On  the  left  side,  where  the  ground  sinks  and  the  wood  is  thick- 
est." 

"  Did  you  run  out  again  ?  did  you  call  after  her  ?" 

"  How  could  1 1     I  was  too  terrified  to  move  or  speak." 

"  But  when  you  did,  move — when  you  came  out —  ?" 

"  I  ran  back  here,  to  tell  you  what  had  happened." 

"  Did  you  see  any  one,  or  hear  any  one  in  the  plantation  ?" 
"  No ;  it  seemed  to  be  all  still  and  quiet  when  I  passed  through  it." 

I  waited  for  a  moment  to  consider.  Was  this  third  person,  sup- 
posed to  have  been  secretly  present  at  the  interview,  a  reaUty,  or 
the  creature  of  Anne  Catherick's  excited  fancy  ?  It  was  impossible 
to  determine.  The  one  thing  certain  was,  that  we  had  failed  again 
on  the  very  brink  of  discovery — failed  utterly  and  irretrievably,  un- 
less Anne  Catherick  kept  her  appointment  at  the  boat-house  for  the 
next  day. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  have  told  me  every  thing  that  passed  ? 
Every  word  that  was  said  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  I  think  so,"  she  answered.  "  My  powers  of  memory,  Marian,  are 
not  like  yours.  But  I  was  so  strongly  impressed,  so  deeply  interest- 
ed, that  nothing  of  any  importance  can  possibly  have  escaped  me." 

"  My  dear  Laura,  the  merest  trifles  are  of  importance  where  Anne 

11* 


250  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Ciithcrick  is  concerned.  Tliink  again.  Did  no  chance  reference  es- 
cape her  as  to  the  place  in  wliich  she  is  living  at  the  present  time  ?" 

"  None  that  I  can  remember." 

"  Bid  she  not  mention  a  companion  and  friend — a  woman  named 
Mrs.  Clements  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  I  yes  I  I  forgot  that.  She  told  me  Mrs.  Clements  wanted 
sadly  to  go  with  her  to  the  lake  and  take  care  of  her,  and  begged 
and  prayed  that  she  would  not  venture  into  this  neighborhood 
alone." 

"  Was  that  all  she  said  about  Mrs.  Clements  ?" 

"  Yes,  that  was  all." 

"  She  told  you  nothing  about  the  place  in  which  she  took  reflige 
after  leaving  Todd's  Corner  ?" 

"  Nothing — I  am  quite  sure." 

"Nor  where  she  has  lived  since?  Nor  what  her  illness  had 
been  ?" 

"  No,  Marian  ;  not  a  word.  Tell  me,  pray  tell  me,  what  you  think 
about  it.     I  don't  know  what  to  think,  or  what  to  do  next." 

"  You  must  do  this,  my  love :  You  must  carefully  keep  the  ap- 
pointment at  the  boat-house  to-morrow.  It  is  impossible  to  say 
what  interests  may  not  depend  on  your  seeing  that  woman  again. 
You  shall  not  be  left  to  yourself  a  second  time.  I  will  follow  you 
at  a  safe  distance.  Nobody  shall  see  me ;  but  I  will  keep  within 
hearing  of  your  voice,  if  any  thing  happens.  Anne  Catherick  has 
escaped  Walter  Hartright,  and  has  escaped  you.  Whatever  happens, 
she  shall  not  escape  meP 

Laura's  eyes  read  mine  attentively. 

"  You  believe,"  she  said,  "  in  this  secret  that  my  husband  is  afraid 
of?  Suppose,  Marian,  it  should  only  exist,  after  all,  in  Anne  Cather- 
ick's  fancy  ?  Suppose  she  only  wanted  to  see  me  and  to  speak  to 
me  for  the  sake  of  old  rcmeml)rances  ?  Her  manner  was  so  strange, 
I  almost  doubted  her.     Would  you  trust  her  in  other  things  ?" 

"  I  trust  nothing,  Laura,  but  my  own  observation  of  your  husband's 
conduct.  I  judge  Anne  Catherick's  words  by  his  actions — and  I 
believe  there  h  a  secret." 

I  said  no  more,  and  got  up  to  leave  the  room.  Thoughts  were 
troubling  me,  which  I  might  have  told  her  if  we  had  spoken  to- 
gether longer,  and  which  it  might  have  been  dangerous  for  her  to 
know.  The  influence  of  tl'.-c  terrible  dream  from  which  she  had 
awakened  n^".  hung  darkly  and  heavily  over  every  fresh  impression 
which  the  j)i()gress  of  her  narrative  produced  on  my  mind.  I  felt 
the  ominous  Future  coming  close ;  chilling  me,  with  an  unutterable 
awe ;  forcing  on  me  the  conviction  of  an  unseen  Design  in  the  long 
series  of  complications  which  had  now  fastened  round  us.  I  thought 
of  Hartright — as  I  saw  him, in  the  body,  when  he  said  farewell;  aa 


THE    AVOMAN    IX    WHITE.  251 

I  saw  liim,  in  the  spirit,  in  my  dream — and  I,  too,  began  to  doubt 
now  whether  we  were  not  advancing  blindfold  to  an  appointed  and 
an  inevitable  End. 

Leaving  Laura  to  go  up  stairs  alone,  I  went  out  to  look  about  me 
in  the  walks  near  the  house.  The  circumstances  under  which  Anne 
Catherick  had  parted  from  her,  had  made  me  secretly  anxious  to 
know  how  Count  Fosco  was  passing  the  afternoon  ;  and  had  render- 
ed me  secretly  distrustful  of  the  results  of  that  solitary  journey  from 
which  Sir  Percival  had  returned  but  a  few  hours  since. 

After  looking  for  them  in  every  direction,  and  discovering  noth- 
ing, I  returned  to  the  house,  and  entered  the  ditferent  rooms  on  the 
ground-floor,  one  after  another.  They  were  all  empty.  I  came  out 
again  into  the  hall,  and  went  up  stairs  to  return  to  Laura.  Madame 
Fosco  opened  her  door,  as  I  passed  it  in  my  way  along  the  passage ; 
and  I  stopped  to  see  if  she  could  inform  me  of  the  whereabouts  of 
her  husband  and  Sir  Percival.  Tes ;  she  had  seen  them  both  from 
her  window  more  than  an  hour  since.  The  Count  had  looked  up, 
with  his  customary  kindness,  and  had  mentioned,  with  his  habitual 
attention  to  her  in  the  smallest  trifles,  that  he  and  his  friend  were 
going  out  together  for  a  long  walk. 

For  a  long  walk  I  They  had  never  yet  been  in  each  other's  com- 
pany with  that  object,  in  my  experience  of  them.  Sir  Percival  cared 
for  no  exercise  but  riding ;  and  the  Count  (except  when  he  was  po- 
lite enough  to  be  my  escort)  cared  for  no  exercise  at  all. 

When  I  joined  Laura  again,  I  found  that  she  had  called  to  mind, 
in  my  absence,  the  impending  question  of  the  signature  to  the  deed, 
which,  in  the  interest  of  discussing  her  interview  with  Anne  Cather- 
ick, we  had  hitherto  overlooked.  Her  first  words,  when  I  saw  her, 
expressed  her  surj^rise  at  the  absence  of  the  expected  summons  to 
attend  Sir  Percival  in  the  library. 

"  You  may  make  your  mind  easy  on  that  subject,"  I  said.  '*  For 
the  present,  at  least,  neither  your  resolution  nor  mine  will  be  exposed 
to  any  further  trial.  Sir  Percival  has  altered  his  plans ;  the  business 
of  the  signature  is  put  ofi*." 

"  Put  off?''  Laura  repeated,  amazedly.     '•  Who  told  you  so  ?'' 

"  My  authority  is  Count  Fosco.  I  believe  it  is  to  his  interference 
that  we  are  indebted  for  your  husband's  sudden  change  of  purpose." 

"  It  seems  imj)ossible,  Marian.  If  the  object  of  my  signing  was,  as 
we  suppose,  to  obtain  money  for  Sir  Percival  that  he  urgently  want- 
ed, how  can  the  matter  be  put  off?"' 

"  I  think,  Laura,  we  have  the  means  at  hand  of  setting  that  doubt 
at  rest.  Have  you  forgotten  the  conversation  that  I  heard  between 
Sir  Percival  and  the  lawyer,  as  they  were  crossing  the  hall  ?" 

^'  No ;  but  I  don't  remember — " 

"  I  do.     There  were  two  alternatives  proposed.     One  was  to  ob- 


252  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

tain  your  signature  to  the  parchment.  The  other  was  to  gain  time 
by  giving  bills  at  three  months.  The  last  resource  is  evidently  the 
resource  now  adopted — and  we  may  fairly  hope  to  be  relieved  from 
our  share  in  Sir  PercivaFs  embarrassments  for  some  time  to  come." 

"  Oh,  Marian,  it  sounds  too  good  to  be  true  !" 

"  Does  it,  my  love  ?  You  complimented  me  on  my  ready  memory 
not  long  since — but  you  seem  to  doubt  it  now.  I  will  get  my  jour- 
nal, and  you  shall  see  if  I  am  right  or  wrong." 

I  went  away  and  got  the  book  at  once. 

On  looking  back  to  the  entry  referring  to  the  lawyer's  visit,  we 
found  that  my  recollection  of  the  two  alternatives  presented  was  ac- 
curately correct.  It  was  almost  as  great  a  relief  to  my  mind  as  to 
Laura's,  to  find  that  my  memory  had  served  me,  on  this  occasion,  as 
faithfully  as  usual.  In  the  perilous  uncertainty  of  our  present  situa- 
tion, it  is  hard  to  say  what  future  interests  may  not  depend  upon  the 
regularity  of  the  entries  in  my  journal,  and  upon  the  reliability  of 
my  recollection  at  the  time  when  I  make  them. 

Laura's  face  and  manner  suggested  to  me  that  this  last  consider- 
ation had  occurred  to  her  as  well  as  to  myself.  Any  way,  it  is  only 
a  trifling  matter;  and  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  put  it  down  here  in 
writing — it  seems  to  set  the  forlornness  of  our  situation  in  such  a 
miserably  vivid  light.  We  must  have  little  indeed  to  depend  on, 
when  the  discovery  that  my  memory  can  still  be  trusted  to  serve  us 
is  hailed  as  if  it  was  the  discovery  of  a  new  friend ! 

The  first  bell  for  dinner  separated  us.  Just  as  it  had  done  ring- 
ing, Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  returned  from  their  walk.  We  heard 
the  master  of  the  house  storming  at  the  servants  for  being  five  min- 
utes late  ;  and  the  master's  guest  interposing,  as  usual,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  propriety,  patience,  and  peace. 

:ic  ******  * 

The  evening  has  come  and  gone.  No  extraordinary  event  has 
happened.  But  I  have  noticed  certain  peculiarities  in  the  conduct 
of  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count,  which  have  sent  me  to  my  bed,  feel- 
ing very  anxious  and  uneasy  about  Anne  Catherick,  and  about  the 
results  which  to-morrow  may  produce. 

I  know  enough  l^y  this  time  to  be  sure  that  the  aspect  of  Sir  Per- 
cival, which  is  the  most  false,  and  which,  therefore,  means  the  worst, 
is  his  polite  aspect.  That  long  walk  with  his  friend  had  ended  in 
improving  his  manners,  especially  toward  his  wife.  To  Laura's  se- 
cret surprise  and  to  my  secret  alarm,  he  called  her  by  her  Christian 
name,  asked  if  she  had  heard  lately  from  her  uncle,  inquired  when 
Mrs.  Vcsey  was  to  receive  her  invitation  to  Blackwater,  and  showed 
her  so  many  other  little  attentions,  that  he  almost  recalled  the  days 
of  his  hateful  courtship  at  Limmeridge  House.  This  w^as  a  bad 
sign,  to  begin  with ;  and  I  thought  it  more  ominous  still,  that  he 


THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE.  253 

should  pretend,  after  dinner,  to  fall  asleep  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
that  his  eyes  should  cunningly  follow  Laura  and  me,  when  he 
thought  we  neither  of  us  susjiected  him.  I  have  never  had  any 
doubt  that  his  sudden  journey  by  himself  took  him  to  Welming- 
ham  to  question  Mrs.  Catherick ;  but  the  experience  of  to-night  has 
made  me  fear  that  the  expedition  was  not  undertaken  in  vain,  and 
that  he  has  got  the  information  which  he  unquestionably  left  us  to 
collect.  If  I  knew  where  Anne  Catherick  was  to  be  found,  I  would 
be  up  to-morrow  with  sunrise,  and  warn  her. 

While  the  aspect  under  which  Sir  Percival  presented  himself  to- 
night was  unhappily  but  too  familiar  to  me,  the  aspect  under  which 
the  Count  appeared  was,  on  the  other  hand,  entirely  new  in  my  ex- 
perience of  him.  He  permitted  me  this  evening  to  make  his  ac- 
quaintance, for  the  first  time,  in  the  character  of  a  Man  of  Sentiment 
— of  sentiment,  as  I  believe,  really  felt,  not  assumed  for  the  occasion. 

For  instance,  he  was  quiet  and  subdued ;  his  eyes  and  his  voice 
expressed  a  restrained  sensibility.  He  wore  (as  if  there  was  some 
hidden  connection  between  his  showiest  finery  and  his  deepest  feel- 
ing) the  most  magnificent  waistcoat  he  has  yet  appeared  in — it  was 
made  of  pale  sea-green  silk,  and  delicately  trimmed  with  fine  silver 
braid.  His  voice  sank  into  the  tenderest  infiections,  his  smile  ex- 
pressed a  thoughtful,  fatherly  admiration  whenever  he  spoke  to  Lau- 
ra or  to  me.  He  pressed  his  wife's  hand  under  the  table  when  she 
thanked  him  for  trifling  little  attentions  at  dinner.  He  took  wine 
with  her.  "  Your  health  and  happiness,  my  angel  I"  he  said,  with 
fond  glistening  eyes.  He  ate  little  or  nothing ;  and  sighed,  and  said 
'•  Good  Percival  I"  when  his  friend  laughed  at  him.  After  dinner,  he 
took  Laura  by  the  hand,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  be  "  so  sweet 
as  to  play  to  him,"  She  complied,  through  sheer  astonishment.  He 
sat  by  the  piano,  with  his  watch-chain  resting  in  folds,  like  a  golden 
serpent,  on  the  sea-green  protuberance  of  his  waistcoat.  His  im- 
mense head  lay  languidly  on  one  side  ;  and  he  gently  beat  time  ^^ith 
two  of  his  yellow-white  fingers.  He  highly  approved  of  the  music, 
and  tenderly  admired  Laura's  manner  of  playing — not  as  poor  Hart- 
right  used  to  praise  it,  with  an  innocent  enjoyment  of  the  sweet 
sounds,  but  with  a  clear,  cultivated,  practical  knowledge  of  the  mer- 
its of  the  composition,  in  the  first  place,  and  of  the  merits  of  the 
player's. touch,  in  the  second.  As  the  evening  closed  in,  he  begged 
that  the  lovely  dying  light  might  not  be  profaned,  just  yet,  by  the 
appearance  of  the  lamps.  He  came,  with  his  horribly  silent  tread, 
to  the  distant  window  at  which  I  was  standing,  to  be  out  of  his  way 
and  to  avoid  the  very  sight  of  him — he  came  to  ask  me  to  support 
his  protest  against  the  lamps.  If  any  one  of  them  could  only  have 
burned  him  up  at  that  moment,  I  would  have  gone  down  to  the 
kitchen  and  fetched  it  myself. 


254  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Surely  you  like  tliis  modest,  tremljling  English  twilight  ?"  he 
said,  softly.  "  Ah  !  I  love  it.  I  feel  my  inborn  admiration  of  all 
that  is  nol)le  and  great  and  good,  purified  by  the  breath  of  Heaven, 
on  an  evening  like  this.  Nature  has  such  imperishable  charms, 
such  inextinguishable  tendernesses  for  me  ! — I  am  an  old,  fat  man  : 
talk  which  would  become  your  lips,  Miss  Halcombe,  sounds  like  a 
derision  and  a  mockery  on  mine.  It  is  hard  to  be  laughed  at  in  my 
moments  of  sentiment,  as  if  my  soul  was  like  myself,  old  and  over- 
grown. Observe,  dear  lady,  what  a  light  is  djdng  on  the  trees ! 
Does  it  penetrate  your  heart  as  it  penetrates  mine  V 

He  paused  —  looked  at  me  —  and  repeated  the  famous  lines  of 
Dante  on  the  Evening-time,  with  a  melody  and  tenderness  which 
added  a  charm  of  their  OW' n  to  the  matchless  beauty  of  the  poetry 
itself. 

"  Bah  !"  he  cried,  suddenly,  as  the  last  cadence  of  those  noble  Ital- 
ian words  died  away  on  his  lips ;  "  I  make  an  old  fool  of  myself, 
and  only  weary  you  all !  Let  us  shut  up  the  window  in  our  bosoms 
and  get  ]:)ack  to  the  matter-of-ftict  world,  Percival !  I  sanction  the 
admission  of  the  lamps.  Lady  Glyde  —  Miss  Halcombe  —  Eleanor, 
my  good  wife — which  of  you  will  indulge  me  with  a  game  at  domi- 
noes ?" 

He  addressed  us  all ;  but  he  looked  especially  at  Laura. 

She  had  learned  to  feel  my  dread  of  offending  him,  and  she  ac- 
cepted his  proposal.  It  was  more  than  I  could  have  done  at  that 
moment.  I  could  not  have  sat  down  at  the  same  table  with  him 
for  any  consideration.  His  eyes  seemed  to  reach  my  inmost  soul 
through  the  thickening  obscurity  of  the  twilight.  His  voice  trem- 
bled along  every  nerve  in  my  body,  and  turned  me  hot  and  cold  al- 
ternately. The  mystery  and  terror  of  my  dream,  which  had  haunt- 
ed me  at  intervals  all  through  the  evening,  now  oppressed  my  mind 
with  an  unendurable  foreboding  and  an  unutterable  awe.  I  saw  the 
white  tomb  again,  and  the  veiled  w^oman  rising  out  of  it,  by  Hart- 
right's  side.  The  thought  of  Laura  w^elled  up  like  a  spring  in  the 
depths  of  my  heart,  and  filled  it  with  waters  of  bitterness,  never, 
never  known  to  it  before.  I  caught  her  by  the  hand,  as  she  passed 
me  on  her  way  to  the  table,  and  kissed  her  as  if  that  night  was  to 
part  us  forever.  AVhile  they  were  all  gazLng  at  me  in  astonishment, 
I  ran  out  through  the  low  window  which  was  open  before  me  to  tht, 
ground — ran  out  to  hide  from  them  in  the  darkness ;  to  hide  even 
from  myself 

AVc  separated,  that  evening,  later  than  usual.  Toward  midnight 
the  summer  silence  was  broken  by  the  shuddering  of  a  low,  melan- 
choly wind  among  the  trees.  We  all  felt  the  sudden  chill  in  the 
atmosphere ;  but  the  Count  was  the  first  to  notice  the  stealthy  ris- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  255 

ing  of  the  wind.     He  stopped  while  he  was  lighting  my  candle  for 
me,  and  held  up  his  hand  warningly : 

"  Listen  I"'  he  said.     '•  There  will  be  a  change  to-morrow." 

yii. 

June  Idth. — The  events  of  yesterday  warned  me  to  be  ready,  soon- 
er or  later,  to  meet  the  worst.  To-day  is  not  yet  at  an  end ;  and 
the  worst  has  come. 

Judging  by  the  closest  calculation  of  time  that  Laura  and  I  could 
make,  we  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  Anne  Catherick  must  have 
appeared  at  the  boat-house  at  half-past  two  o'clock  on  the  afternoon 
of  yesterday.  I  accordingly  arranged  that  Laura  should  just  show 
herself  at  the  luncheon-table  to-day,  and  should  then  slip  out  at  the 
first  opportunity,  leaA^ing  me  behind  to  i:)resei've  appearances,  and  to 
follow  her  as  soon  as  I  could  safely  do  so.  This  mode  of  proceed- 
ing, if  no  obstacles  occurred  to  thwart  us,  would  enable  her  to  be  at 
the  boat-house  before  half-past  two,  and  (when  I  left  the  table,  in  my 
turn)  would  take  me  to  a  safe  position  in  the  plantation  before  three. 

The  change  in  the  weather,  which  last  night's  wind  warned  us  to 
expect,  came  with  the  morning.  It  was  raining  heavily  when  I  got 
up,  and  it  continued  to  rain  until  twelve  o'clock,  when  the  clouds 
dispersed,  the  blue  sky  appeared,  and  the  sun  shone  again  with  the 
bright  promise  of  a  fine  atlernoon. 

My  anxiety  to  know  how  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  would  oc- 
cupy the  early  part  of  the  day  was  by  no  means  set  at  rest,  so  fiir  as 
Sir  Percival  was  concerned,  by  his  leaving  us  immediately  after 
breakfiist  and  going  out  by  himself,  in  spite  of  the  rain.  He  neither 
told  us  where  he  was  going  nor  when  we  might  expect  him  back. 
We  saw  him  pass  the  breakfast-room  window  hastily,  with  his  high 
boots  and  his  water-proof  coat  on — and  that  was  all. 

The  Count  passed  the  morning  quietly  indoors,  some  part  of  it  in 
the  library,  some  part  in  the  drawing-room,  playing  odds  and  ends 
of  music  on  the  piano,  and  humming  to  himself.  Judging  by  ap- 
pearances, the  sentimental  side  of  his  charncter  was  persistently  in- 
clined to  betray  itself  still.  He  was  silent  and  sensitive,  and  ready 
to  sigh  and  lang-uish  ponderously  (as  only  fat  men  ca?i  sigh  and  lan- 
guish) on  the  smallest  provocation. 

Luncheon  -  time  came  ;  and  Sir  Percival  did  not  return.  The 
Count  took  his  fiiend's  place  at  the  table,  plaintiveh'  devoured  the 
greater  part  of  a  fruit  tart,  submerged  under  a  whole  jugful  of 
cream,  and  explained  the  full  merit  of  the  achievement  to  us  as  soon 
as  he  had  done.  "  A  taste  for  sweets,"  he  said,  in  his  softest  tones 
and  his  tenderest  manner,  "  is  the  innocent  taste  of  women  and 
children.  I  love  to  share  it  with  them — it  is  another  bond,  dear 
ladies,  between  vou  and  me." 


256  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Laura  Icfl  the  table  in  ten  minutes'  time.  I  was  sorely  tempted 
to  accompany  her.  But  if  we  liad  both  g'one  out  together,  we  must 
have  excited  suspicion ;  and,  worse  still,  if  we  allowed  Anne  Cath- 
crick  to  see  Laura  accompanied  by  a  second  person  who  was  a  stran- 
ger to  her,  we  should  in  all  probability  forfeit  her  confidence  from 
that  moment,  never  to  regain  it  again. 

I  waited,  therefore,  as  patiently  as  I  could,  until  the  sen^ant  came 
in  to  clear  the  table.  When  I  quitted  the  room  there  were  no  signs, 
in  the  house  or  out  of  it,  of  Sir  Percival's  return.  I  left  the  Count 
with  a  piece  of  sugar  between  his  lips,  and  the  vicious  cockatoo 
scrambling  up  his  waistcoat  to  get  at  it ;  while  Madame  Fosco,  sit- 
ting opposite  to  her  husband,  watched  the  proceedings  of  his  bird 
and  himself  as  attentively  as  if  she  had  never  seen  any  thing  of  the 
sort  before  in  her  life.  On  my  way  to  the  plantation  I  kept  care- 
fully beyond  the  range  of  view  from  the  luncheon-room  window. 
Nobody  saw  me  and  nobody  followed  me.  It  was  then  a  quarter  to 
three  o'clock  by  my  watch. 

Once  among  the  trees,  I  walked  rapidly,  until  I  had  advanced 
more  than  half-way  through  the  plantation.  At  that  point  I  slack- 
ened my  pace,  and  proceeded  cautiously,  but  I  saw  no  one,  and 
heard  no  voices.  By  little  and  little,  I  came  within  view  of  the 
back  of  the  boat-house — stopped  and  listened — then  went  on,  till  I 
was  close  behind  it,  and  must  have  heard  any  persons  who  were 
talking  inside.  Still  the  silence  was  unbroken :  still,  far  and  near, 
no  sign  of  a  living  creature  appeared  anywhere. 

After  skirting  round  by  the  back  of  the  building,  first  on  one 
side,  and  then  on  the  other,  and  making  no  discoveries,  I  ventured 
in  front  of  it,  and  fairly  looked  in.     The  place  was  empty. 

I  called  ''  Laura  I" — at  first,  softly — then  louder  and  louder.  No 
one  answered,  and  no  one  appeared.  For  all  that  I  could  see  and 
licar,  the  only  human  creature  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  lake  and 
tlie  plantation  was  myself 

My  heart  began  to  beat  violently,  but  I  kept  my  resolution,  and 
searched,  first  the  boat-house,  and  then  the  ground  in  front  of  it,  for 
any  signs  which  might  show  me  whether  Laura  had  really  reached 
the  place  or  not.  No  mark  of  her  presence  appeared  inside  the 
building,  but  I  found  traces  of  her  outside  it,  in  footsteps  on  the 
sand. 

I  detected  the  footsteps  of  two  persons — large  footsteps,  like  a 
man's,  and  small  footsteps,  which,  by  putting  my  own  feet  into  them 
and  testing  their  size  in  that  manner,  I  felt  certain  were  Laura's. 
The  ground  was  confusedly  marked  in  this  way,  just  before  the 
boat-house.  Close  against  one  side  of  it,  under  shelter  of  the  pro- 
jecting roof,  I  discovered  a  little  hole  in  the  sand — a  hole  artificial- 
ly made,  beyond  a  doubt.     I  just  noticed  it,  and  then  turned  away 


THE    WOMAN   IX   WHITE.  257 

immediately  to  trace  the  footsteps  as  far  as  I  could,  and  to  follow 
the  direction  in  which  they  might  lead  me. 

They  led  me,  starting  from  the  left-hand  side  of  the  boat-house, 
along  the  edge  of  tlie  trees,  a  distance,  I  should  think,  of  between 
two  and  three  hundred  yards — and  then  the  sandy  ground  showed 
no  further  trace  of  them.  Feeling  that  the  persons  whose  course  I 
was  tracking  must  necessarily  have  entered  the  plantation  at  this 
point,  I  entered  it  too.  At  first  I  could  find  no  path,  but  I  discov- 
ered one  afterward,  just  faintly  traced  among  the  trees,  and  followed 
it.  It  took  me,  for  some  distance,  in  the  direction  of  the  village, 
until  I  stopped  at  a  point  where  another  foot-track  crossed  it.  The 
brambles  grew  thickly  on  either  side  of  this  second  path.  I  stood, 
looking  down  it,  uncertain  which  way  to  take  next,  and  while  I 
looked  I  saw  on  one  thorny  branch  some  fragments  of  fringe  from 
a  woman's  shawl.  A  closer  examination  of  the  fringe  satisfied  me 
that  it  had  been  torn  from  a  shawl  of  Laura's,  and  I  instantly  fol- 
lowed the  second  path.  It  brought  me  out,  at  last,  to  my  great  re- 
lief, at  the  back  of  the  house.  I  say  to  my  great  relief,  because  I  in- 
ferred that  Laura  must,  for  some  unknown  reason,  have  returned  be- 
fore me  by  this  roundabout  way.  I  went  in  by  the  court-yard  and 
the  offices.  The  first  person  whom  I  met  in  crossing  tlie  servants' 
hall  was  Mrs.  Michelson,  the  housekeeper. 

"  Do  you  know,"  I  asked,  "  whether  Lady  Glyde  has  come  in  from 
her  walk  or  not  ?" 

"  My  lady  came  in  a  little  while  ago,  with  Sir  Percival,"  answered 
the  housekeeper.  "  I  am  afraid.  Miss  Halcombe,  something  very 
distressing  has  happened." 

My  heart  sank  within  me.  "You  don't  mean  an  accident?"  I 
said,  faintly. 

"  No,  no — thank  God,  no  accident.  But  my  lady  ran  up  stau-s  to 
her  own  room  in  tears,  and  Sir  Percival  has  ordered  me  to  give 
Fanny  warning  to  leave  in  an  hour's  time." 

Fanny  was  Laura's  maid  ;  a  good,  afiectionate  girl,  who  had  been 
with  her  for  years — the  only  person  in  the  house  whose  fidelity  and 
devotion  we  could  both  depend  upon. 

"  Where  is  Fanny  ?''  I  inquired. 

"  In  my  room.  Miss  Halcombe.  The  young  woman  is  quite  over- 
come ;  and  I  told  her  to  sit  down,  and  try  to  recover  herself" 

I  went  to  Mrs.  ]Michelson*s  room,  and  found  Fanny  in  a  corner, 
with  her  box  by  her  side,  crying  bitterly. 

She  could  give  me  no  explanation  whatever  of  her  sudden  dis- 
missal. Sir  Percival  had  ordered  that  she  should  have  a  month's 
wages,  in  place  of  a  month's  warning,  and  go.  No  reason  had  been 
assigned ;  no  objection  had  been  made  to  her  conduct.  She  had 
been  forbidden  to  appeal  to  her  mistress,  forbidden  even  to  see  hei 


258  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

for  a  moment  to  say  good-bye.  She  was  to  go  without  explanations 
or  farewells— and  to  go  at  once. 

After  soothing  the  poor  girl  by  a  few  friendly  words,  I  asked 
where  she  proposed  to  sleep  that  night.  She  replied  that  she 
tliought  of  going  to  the  little  inn  in  the  village,  the  landlady  of 
which  was  a  respectable  woman,  known  to  the  servants  at  Black- 
water  Park.  The  next  morning,  by  leaving  early,  she  might  get 
back  to  her  friends  in  Cumberland,  without  stopping  in  London, 
where  she  was  a  total  stranger. 

I  felt  directly  that  Fanny's  departure  offered  us  a  safe  means  of 
communication  with  London  and  with  Limmcridge  House,  of  which 
it  might  be  very  important  to  avail  ourselves.  Accordingly,  I  told 
lier  that  she  might  expect  to  hear  from  her  mistress  or  from  me  in 
the  course  of  the  evening,  and  that  she  might  depend  on  our  both 
doing  all  that  lay  in  our  power  to  help  her,  under  the  trial  of  leav- 
ing us  for  the  present.  Those  words  said,  I  shook  hands  with  her 
and  went  up  stiurs. 

The  door  which  led  to  Laura's  room  was  the  door  of  an  ante- 
chamber opening  on  to  the  passage.  When  I  tried  it,  it  was  bolted 
on  the  inside, 

I  knocked,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  the  same  heavy,  over- 
grown house-maid  whose  lumpish  insensibility  had  tried  my  patience 
so  severely  on  the  day  when  I  found  the  wounded  dog.  I  had  since 
that  time  discovered  that  her  name  was  Margaret  Porcher,  and  that  she( 
was  the  most  awkward,  slatternly,  and  obstinate  servant  in  the  house.^ 

On  opening  the  door,  she  instantly  stepped  out  to  the  threshold, 
and  stood  grinning  at  me  in  stolid  silence. 

'•  Why  do  you  stand  there  ?"  I  said.  "  Don't  you  see  that  I  want 
to  come  in  V 

'•  Ah,  but  you  mustn't  come  in,"  was  the  answer,  with  another  and 
a  broader  grin  still. 

"  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  in  that  way  ?     Stand  back  instantly  !" 

She  stretched  out  a  great  red  hand  and  arm  on  each  side  of  her, 
so  as  to  bar  the  door-way,  and  slowly  nodded  her  addled  head  at  me. 

"  Master's  orders,"  she  said,  and  nodded  again. 

I  had  need  of  all  my  self-control  to  warn  me  against  contesting 
the  matter  with  her,  and  to  remind  me  that  the  next  words  I  had  to 
say  must  be  addressed  to  her  master.  I  turned  my  back  on  her,  and 
instantly  went  down  stairs  to  find  him.  My  resolution  to  keep  my 
temper  under  all  the  irritations  that  Sir  Percival  could  offer,  was,  by 
this  time,  as  completely  forgotten — I  say  so  to  my  shame — as  if  I 
had  never  made  it.  It  did  me  good — after  all  I  had  suffered  and 
suppressed  in  that  house — it  actually  did  me  good  to  foci  how  angry 
I  was. 

Tlie  drawing-room  and  the  breakfast-room  were  both  empty.     I 


THE    WOMAN    IN'    WHITE.  259 

"vrent  on  to  the  library ;  and  there  I  found  Sir  Percival,  the  Count, 
and  ]Madame  Fosco.  They  were  all  three  standing  up  close  togeth- 
er, and  Sir  Percival  had  a  little  slip  of  paper  in  his  hand.  As  I 
opened  the  door,  I  heard  the  Count  say  to  him,  '•  Xo — a  thousand 
times  over,  no.'' 

I  walked  straight  up  to  him,  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  Sir  Percival,  that  your  wife's  room  is  a  pris- 
on, and  that  your  house-maid  is  the  jailer  who  keeps  it  ?"  I  asked. 

''  Yes,  that  is  what  you  are  to  understand,"  he  answered.  '•  Take 
care  my  jailer  hasn't  got  double  duty  to  do — take  care  your  room  is 
not  a  prison  too." 

'•  Take  you  care  how  you  treat  your  wife,  and  how  you  threaten 
me,^'  I  broke  out,  in  the  heat  of  my  anger.  *•  There  are  laws  in  En- 
gland to  protect  women  from  cruelty  and  outrage.  If  you  hurt  a 
hair  of  Laura's  head,  if  you  dare  to  interfere  with  my  freedom,  come 
what  may,  to  those  laws  I  will  appeal." 

Instead  of  answering  me,  he  turned  round  to  the  Count. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you  ?"  he  asked.     ''  What  do  you  say  now  ?" 

"What  I  said  before,"  replied  the  Count — ''No.'" 

Even  in  the  vehemence  of  my  anger,  I  felt  his  calm,  cold,  gray  eyes 
on  my  face.  They  turned  away  from  me  as  soon  as  he  had  spoken, 
and  looked  significantly  at  his  wife.  Madame  Fosco  immediately 
moved  close  to  my  side,  and,  in  that  position,  addressed  Sir  Percival 
before  either  of  us  could  speak  again. 

"  Favor  me  with  your  attention  for  one  moment,"  she  said,  in  her 
clear  icily-suppressed  tones.  '•  I  have  to  thank  you.  Sir  Percival,  for 
your  hospitality,  and  to  decline  taking  advantage  of  it  any  longer. 
I  remain  in  no  house  in  which  ladies  are  treated  as  your  wife  and 
Miss  Halcombe  have  been  treated  here  to-day  I" 

Sir  Percival  drew  back  a  step,  and  stared  at  her  in  dead  silence. 
The  declaration  he  had  just  heard — a  declaration  which  he  well 
knew,  as  I  well  knew,  Madame  Fosco  would  not  have  ventured  to 
make  without  her  husband's  permission  —  seemed  to  petrify  him 
with  surprise.  The  Count  stood  by,  and  looked  at  his  wife  with 
the  most  enthusiastic  admiration. 

"  She  is  sublime  1"  he  said  to  himself.  He  approached  her,  while 
he  spoke,  and  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm.  '*  I  am  at  your  serv- 
ice, Eleanor,"  he  went  on,  with  a  quiet  dignity  that  I  had  never 
noticed  in  him  before.  "  And  at  Miss  Haicombe's  service,  if  she 
will  honor  me  by  accepting  all  the  assistance  I  can  ofi'er  her." 

"  D — n  it  I  what  do  you  mean  ?''  cried  Sir  Percival,  as  the  Count 
quietly  moved  away,  with  his  wife,  to  the  door. 

''  At  other  times  I  mean  what  I  say,  but  at  this  time  I  mean  what 
my  wife  says,"  replied  the  impenetrable  Italian.  '*  We  have  changed 
places,  Percival,  for  once,  and  Madame  Fosco's  opinion  is — mine." 


260  Tin-:  woman  in  white. 

Sir  Percival  criim])lt'd  up  tlie  paper  in  his  Imnd,  and,  pushing  jDast 
the  Count  witli  another  oath,  stood  between  liim  and  the  door. 

"Have  your  own  way,"  he  said,  with  baffled  rage  in  his  low,  lialf- 
wliispering  tones.  "  Have  your  own  way — and  see  what  comes  of 
it."     With  those  words  he  left  the  room. 

Madame  Fosco  glanced  inquiringly  at  her  husband.  "He  has 
gone  away  very  suddenly,"  she  said.     "  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  It  means  that  you  and  I  together  have  brought  the  worst-tem- 
pered man  in  all  England  to  his  senses,"  answered  the  Count.  "  It 
means,  Miss  Halcombe,  that  Lady  Glyde  is  relieved  from  a  gross  in- 
dignity, and  you  from  the  repetition  of  an  unpardonable  insult. 
Suffer  me  to  express  my  admiration  of  your  conduct  and  your  cour- 
age at  a  very  trying  moment." 

"  Sincere  admiration,"  suggested  Madame  Fosco. 

''  Sincere  admiration,"  echoed  the  Count. 

I  had  no  longer  the  strength  of  my  first  angry  resistance  to  out- 
rage and  injury  to  support  me.  My  heart-sick  anxiety  to  see  Laura ; 
my  sense  of  my  own  helpless  ignorance  of  what  had  hapjDcned  at 
the  boat-house,  pressed  on  me  with  an  intolerable  weight.  I  tried 
to  keep  up  appearances,  by  speaking  to  the  Count  and  his  wife  in 
the  tone  wdiich  they  had  chosen  to  adopt  in  speaking  to  me.  But 
the  words  failed  on  my  lips — my  breath  came  short  and  thick — my 
eyes  looked  longingly,  in  silence,  at  the  door.  The  Count,  under- 
standing my  anxiety,  opened  it,  went  out,  and  pulled  it  to  after  him. 
At  the  same  time  Sir  Percival's  heavy  stejo  descended  the  stairs.  I 
heard  them  whispering  together  outside,  while  Madame  Fosco  was 
assuring  me  in  her  calmest  and  most  conventional  manner  that  she 
rejoiced,  for  all  our  sakes,  that  Sir  Percival's  conduct  had  not 
obliged  her  husband  and  herself  to  leave  Blackwater  Park.  Before 
she  had  done  speaking,  the  whispering  ceased,  ihe  door  opened,  and 
the  Count  looked  in. 

"  Miss  Halcombe,"  he  said,  "I  am  happy  to  infonn  you  that  Lady 
Glyde  is  mistress  again  in  her  own  house.  I  thought  it  might  be 
more  agreeable  to  you  to  hear  of  this  change  for  the  better  from  me 
than  from  Sir  Percival,  and  I  have  therefore  expressly  returned  to 
mention  it." 

''  Admirable  delicacy !"  said  Madame  Fosco,  paying  back  her  hus- 
band's tribute  of  admiration  with  the  Count's  own  coin,  in  the 
Count's  own  manner.  He  smiled  and  bowed  as  if  he  had  received 
a  formal  compliment  from  a  polite  stranger,  and  drew  back  to  let 
me  ])ass  out  first. 

Sir  Percival  was  standing  in  the  hall.  As  I  hurried  to  the  stairs 
I  heard  him  call  impatiently  to  the  Count  to  come  out  of  the  library. 

"  Wliat  are  you  waiting  there  for  ?"  he  said ;  ''  I  want  to  speak  to 
you." 


THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE.  261 

"  And  I  want  to  think  a  little  by  myself,"  replied  the  other. 
"  Wait  till  later,  Percival — wait  till  later." 

Neither  he  nor  his  friend  said  any  more.  I  gained  the  top  of  the 
stairs,  and  ran  along  the  passage.  In  my  haste  and  my  agitation  I 
left  the  door  of  the  antechamber  open,  but  I  closed  the  door  of  the 
bedroom  the  moment  I  was  inside  it. 

Laura  was  sitting  alone  at  the  far  end  of  the  room,  her  arms  rest- 
ing wearily  on  a  table,  and  her  face  hidden  in  her  hands.  She  start- 
ed up,  with  a  cry  of  delight,  when  she  saw  me. 

"  How  did  -you  get  here  ?"  she  asked.  "  Who  gave  you  leave  ? 
Not  Sir  Percival  ?" 

In  my  overpowering  anxiety  to  hear  what  she  had  to  tell  me,  I 
could  not  answer  her  —  I  could  only  put  questions,  on  my  side. 
Laura's  eagerness  to  know  what  had  passed  down  stairs  proved, 
however,  too  strong  to  be  resisted.  She  persistently  repeated  her 
inquiries. 

"  The  Count,  of  course,"  I  answered,  impatiently.  ''Whose  influ- 
ence in  the  house —  ?" 

She  stopped  me,  with  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

"  Don't  speak  of  him,"  she  cried.  "  The  Count  is  the  vilest  crea- 
ture breathing !     The  Count  is  a  miserable  Spy —  !" 

Before  we  could  either  of  us  say  another  word  we  were  alarmed 
1)}^  a  soft  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  bedroom. 

I  had  not  yet  sat  down,  and  I  went  first  to  see  who  it  was.  When 
I  opened  the  door  Madame  Fosco  confronted  me,  with  my  handker- 
cliief  in  her  hand. 

"•  You  dropped  this  down  stairs.  Miss  Halcombe,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  thought  I  could  bring  it  to  you,  as  I  was  passing  by  to  my  own 
room." 

Her  face,  naturally  pale,  had  turned  to  such  a  ghastly  whiteness 
that  I  started  at  the  sight  of  it.  Her  hands,  so  sure  and  steady  at 
all  other  times,  trembled  violently,  and  her  eyes  looked  wolfishly 
past  me  through  the  open  door,  and  fixed  on  Laura. 

She  had  been  listening  before  she  knocked  I  I  saw  it  in  her 
white  face  ;  I  saw  it  in  her  trembling  hands ;  I  saw  it  in  her  look  at 
Laura. 

After  waiting  an  instant,  she  turned  from  me  in  silence,  and  slow- 
ly walked  away. 

I  closed  the  door  again.  "  Oh,  Laura  !  Laura  !  We  shall  both 
rue  the  day  when  you  called  the  Count  a  Spy  !" 

"  You  would  have  called  him  so  yourself,  Marian,  if  you  had 
known  what  I  know.  Anne  Catherick  was  right.  There  icas  a 
third  person  watching  us  in  the  jDlantation  yesterday,  and  that 
third  person — " 

"  Are  you  sure  it  was  the  Count  ?" 


262  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  I  am  absolutely  certain.  lie  was  Sir  Percival's  spy  —  he  was 
Sir  Percival's  infonner — lie  set  Sir  Percival  watching  and  waiting, 
all  the  morning  through,  for  Anne  Catherick  and  for  me." 

"  Is  Anne  found  ?     Did  you  see  her  at  the  lake  ?" 

"  No.  She  has  saved  herself  by  keeping  away  from  the  place. 
When  I  got  to  the  l)oat-house,  no  one  was  there." 

"Yes?  yes?" 

"  I  went  in,  and  sat  waiting  for  a  few  minutes.  But  my  restless- 
ness made  me  get  up  again,  to  walk  about  a  little.  As  I  passed  out, 
I  saw  some  marks  on  the  sand,  close  under  the  front  of  the  boat- 
house.  I  stooped  down  to  examine  them,  and  discovered  a  word 
written  in  large  letters  on  the  sand.     The  word  was — look." 

"  And  you  scraped  away  the  sand,  and  dug  a  hollow  place  in  it  ?" 

'•  How  do  you  know  that,  Marian  ?" 

"  I  saw  the  hollow  place  myself,  when  I  followed  you  to  the  boat- 
house.     Go  on — go  on  !" 

"  Yes,  I  scraped  away  the  sand  on  the  surface,  and  in  a  little  while 
I  came  to  a  strip  of  paper  hidden  beneath,  which  had  writing  on  it. 
The  writing  was  signed  with  Anne  Catherick's  initials." 

"  Where  is  it  ?" 

"  Sir  Percival  has  taken  it  from  me." 

"  Can  you  remember  what  the  writing  was  ?  Do  you  think  you 
can  repeat  it  to  me  ?" 

"  In  substance  I  can,  Marian.  It  was  very  short.  You  would  have 
remembered  it  word  for  word." 

"  Try  to  tell  me  what  the  substance  was,  before  we  go  any  farther." 

She  complied.  I  write  the  lines  down  here,  exactly  as  she  repeat- 
ed them  to  me.     They  ran  thus : 

''  I  was  seen  with  you,  yesterday,  by  a  tall  stout  old  man,  and  had 
to  run  to  save  myself  He  was  not  quick  enough  on  his  feet  to  fol- 
low me,  and  he  lost  me  among  the  trees.  I  dare  not  risk  coming 
back  here  to-day,  at  the  same  time.  I  write  this  and  hide  it  in  the 
sand,  at  six  in  the  morning,  to  tell  you  so.  When  we  speak  next  of 
your  wicked  husband's  Secret  we  must  speak  safely  or  not  at  all. 
Try  to  have  patience.  I  promise  you  shall  see  me  again ;  and  that 
soon.— A.  C." 

The  reference  to  the  "  tall  stout  old  man  "  (the  terms  of  which 
Laura  was  certain  that  she  had  repeated  to  me  correctly)  left  no 
doubt  as  to  who  the  intruder  had  been.  I  called  to  mind  that  I  had 
told  Sir  Percival,  in  the  Count's  presence,  the  day  before,  that  Laura 
liad  gone  to  the  boat-house  to  look  for  her  brooch.  In  all  probabil- 
ity he  had  followed  her  there,  in  his  officious  way,  to  relieve  her 
mind  about  the  matter  of  the  signature,  immediately  after  he  had 


THE    WOMAN    IN    AVUITE.  263 

mentioned  the  chaage  in  Sir  Percival's  plans  to  me  in  the  drawings 
room.  In  this  case  he  coukl  only  have  got  to  the  neighborhood  of 
the  boat-house  at  the  very  moment  when  Anne  Catherick  discovered 
him.  The  suspiciously  hurried  manner  in  which  she  parted  from 
Laura  had  no  doubt  prompted  his  useless  attempt  to  follow  her. 
Of  the  conversation  which  had  jDreviously  taken  place  between  them 
he  could  have  heard  nothing.  The  distance  between  the  house  and 
the  lake,  and  the  time  at  which  he  left  me  in  the  drawing-room,  as 
compared  with  the  time  at  which  Laura  and  Anne  Catherick  had 
been  speaking  together,  proved  that  fact  to  us,  at  any  rate,  beyond  a 
doubt. 

Having  arrived  at  something  like  a  conclusion,  so  for,  my  next 
great  interest  was  to  know  what  discoveries  Sir  Percival  had  made, 
after  Count  Fosco  had  given  him  his  information. 

''  How  came  you  to  lose  possession  of  the  letter  ?"  I  asked.  '*  What 
did  you  do  with  it,  when  you  found  it  in  the  sand  ?" 

"  After  reading  it  once  through,"'  she  replied, "  I  took  it  into  the 
boat-house  vrith  me,  to  sit  down  and  look  over  it  a  second  time. 
While  I  was  reading  a  shadow  fell  across  the  paper.  I  looked  up, 
and  saw  Sir  Percival  standing  in  the  door-way  watching  me." 

"  Did  you  try  to  hide  the  letter  V 

"  I  tried ;  but  he  stopped  me.  '  You  needn't  trouble  to  hide  that,' 
he  said.  '  I  happen  to  have  read  it.'  I  could  only  look  at  him  help- 
lessly— I  could  say  nothing.  'You  understand?'  he  went  on;  'I 
have  read  it.  I  dug  it  up  out  of  the  sand  two  hours  since,  and 
buried  it  again,  and  wrote  the  word  above  it  again,  and  left  it  ready 
to  your  hands.  You  can't  lie  yourself  out  of  the  scrape  now.  You 
saw  Anne  Catherick  in  secret  yesterday,  and  you  have  got  her  letter 
in  your  hand  at  this  moment.  I  have  not  caught  her  yet,  but  I  have 
caught  you.  Give  me  the  letter.'  He  stepped  close  up  to  me — I  was 
alone  with  him,  Marian — what  could  I  do  ? — I  gave  him  the  letter." 

"  What  did  he  say  when  you  gave  it  to  him  ?"' 

"  At  first  he  said  nothing.  He  took  me  by  the  ann,  and  led  me 
out  of  the  boat-house,  and  looked  about  him,  on  all  sides,  as  if  he 
w^as  afraid  of  our  being  seen  or  heard.  Then,  he  clasped  his  hand 
fast  round  my  arm,  and  whispered  to  me, '  What  did  Anne  Cather- 
ick say  to  you  yesterday  ? — I  insist  on  hearing  every  word,  from  first 
to  last.' " 

'•  Did  you  tell  him  ?" 

"  I  was  alone  with  him,  Marian — his  cruel  hand  was  bruising  my 
arm — what  could  I  do  ?" 

"  Is  the  mark  on  your  arm  still  ?     Let  me  see  it." 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  see  it  ?" 

"  I  want  to  see  it,  Laura,  because  our  endurance  must  end,  and  our 
resistance  must  begin,  to-day.    That  mark  is  a  weapon  to  strike  liim 


264  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

with.  Let  mc  sec  it  now — I  may  have  to  swear  to  it  at  some  future 
time." 

'•  Oh,  Marian,  don't  look  so  !  don't  talk  so !  It  doesn't  hurt  me 
now !'' 

"  Let  me  see  it !" 

She  showed  me  the  marks.  I  was  past  grieving  over  them,  past 
crjnng  over  them,  past  shuddering  over  them.  They  say  we  are 
either  better  than  men,  or  worse.  If  the  temptation  that  has  fallen 
in  some  women's  way,  and  made  them  worse,  had  fallen  in  mine  at 
that  moment —  Thank  God !  my  face  betrayed  nothing  that  his 
wife  could  read.  The  gentle,  innocent,  afl'ectionate  creature  thought 
I  was  frightened  for  her  and  sorry  for  her — and  thought  no  more. 

''  Don't  think  too  seriously  of  it,  Marian,"  she  said,  simply,  as  she 
pulled  her  sleeve  down  again.     "  It  doesn't  hurt  me  now." 

"  I  will  try  to  think  quietly  of  it,  my  love,  for  your  sake. — Well  ! 
well  I  And  you  told  him  all  that  Anne  Catherick  had  said  to  you 
—all  that  you  told  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  all.  He  insisted  on  it — I  was  alone  with  him — I  could  con- 
ceal nothing." 

''  Did  he  say  any  thing  when  you  had  done  ?" 

"  He  looked  at  me,  and  laughed  to  himself,  in  a  mocking,  bitter 
way.  '  I  mean  to  have  the  rest  out  of  you,'  he  said ;  '  do  you  hear  ? 
— the  rest.'  I  declared  to  him,  solemnly,  that  I  had  told  him  every 
thing  I  knew.  '  Not  you  !'  he  answered;  '  you  know  more  than  you 
choose  to  tell.  Won't  you  tell  it  ?  You  shall !  I'll  wring  it  out  of 
you  at  home,  if  I  can't  wring  it  out  of  you  here.'  He  led  me  away 
by  a  strange  path  through  the  plantation — a  path  where  there  was 
no  hope  of  our  meeting  you — and  he  spoke  no  more  till  we  came 
within  sight  of  the  house.  Then  he  stojjped  again,  and  said, '  Will 
you  take  a  second  chance,  if  I  give  it  to  you  ?  Will  you  think  bet- 
ter of  it,  and  tell  me  the  rest  V  I  could  only  repeat  the  same  words 
I  had  spoken  before.  He  cursed  my  obstinacy,  and  went  on,  and 
took  me  with  him  to  the  house.  '  You  can't  deceive  me,'  he  said ; 
'  you  know  more  than  you  choose  to  tell.  I'll  have  your  secret  out 
of  you  ;  and  I'll  have  it  out  of  that  sister  of  yours,  as  well.  There 
shall  be  no  more  plotting  and  whispering  between  you.  Neither 
you  nor  she  shall  see  each  other  again  till  you  have  confessed  the 
truth.  I'll  have  you  watched  morning,  noon,  and  night,  till  you 
confess  the  truth.'  He  was  deaf  to  every  thing  I  could  say.  He 
took  me  straight  up  stairs  into  my  own  room.  Fanny  was  sitting 
there,  doing  some  work  for  me,  and  he  instantly  ordered  her  out. 
'  I'll  take  good  care  you're  not  mixed  up  in  the  conspiracy,'  he  said. 
'  You  shall  leave  this  house  to-day.  If  your  mistress  wants  a  maid, 
slic  shall  have  one  of  my  choosing.'  He  pushed  me  into  the  room, 
and  locked  the  door  on  me — he  set  that  senseless  woman  to  watch 


THE  woMxVX  IX  wniTP:.  265 

me  outside — Marian  I  he  looked  and  spoke  like  a  madman.     You 
may  hardly  understand  it — he  did  indeed." 

''  I  do  understand  it,  Laura.  He  is  mad — mad  with  the  terrors  of 
a  guilty  conscience.  Every  word  you  have  said  makes  me  positive- 
ly certain  that  when  Anne  Catherick  left  you  yesterday,  you  were  on 
the  eve  of  discovering  a  secret,  which  might  have  been  your  vile  hus- 
band's ruin — and  lie  thinks  you  have  discovered  it.  Nothing  you 
can  say  or  do  will  quiet  that  guilty  distrust,  and  convince  his  false 
nature  of  your  truth.  I  don't  say  this,  my  love,  to  alarm  you.  I  say 
it  to  open  your  eyes  to  your  position,  and  to  convince  you  of  the 
urgent  necessity  of  letting  me  act,  as  I  best  can,  for  your  protection, 
while  the  chance  is  our  own.  Count  Fosco's  interference  has  se- 
cured me  access  to  you  to-day,  but  he  may  w^ithdraw  that  interfer- 
ence to-morrow.  Sir  Percival  has  already  dismissed  Fanny,  because 
she  is  a  quick-witted  girl,  and  devotedly  attached  to  you,  and  has 
chosen  a  woman  to  take  her  place  who  cares  nothing  for  your  inter- 
ests, and  whose  dull  intelligence  lowers  her  to  the  level  of  the  watch- 
dog in  the  yard.  It  is  impossible  to  say  what  violent  measures  he 
may  take  next,  unless  we  make  the  most  of  our  opportunities  while 
we  have  them.'' 

"  What  can  we  do,  Marian  ?  Oh,  if  we  could  only  leave  this  house, 
never  to  see  it  again  !" 

"  Listen  to  me,  my  love,  and  try  to  think  that  you  are  not  quite 
helpless  so  long  as  I  am  here  with  you." 

"  I  will  think  so,  I  do  think  so.  Don't  altogether  forget  poor 
Fanny,  in  thinking  of  me.     She  wants  help  and  comfort  too." 

"  I  will  not  forget  her.  I  saw  her  before  I  came  up  here,  and  I 
have  arranged  to  communicate  with  her  to-night.  Letters  are  not 
safe  in  the  post-bag  at  Blackwater  Park,  and  I  shall  have  two  to 
write  to-day,  in  your  interests,  which  must  pass  through  no  hands 
but  Fanny's." 

"  What  letters  ?" 

"  I  mean  to  write  first,  Laura,  to  Mr.  Gilmore's  partner,  who  has 
offered  to  help  us  in  any  fresh  emergency.  Little  as  I  know  of  the 
law,  I  am  certain  that  it  can  protect  a  woman  from  such  treatment 
as  that  ruiSan  has  inflicted  on  you  to-day.  I  will  go  into  no  details 
about  Anne  Catherick,  because  I  have  no  certain  information  to 
give.  But  the  lawyer  shall  know  of  those  bruises  on  your  arm,  and 
of  the  violence  oficred  to  you  in  this  room — he  shall,  before  I  rest 
to-night  I" 

"  But,  think  of  the  exposure,  Marian  1" 

"  I  am  calculating  on  the  exposure.  Sir  Percival  has  more  to 
dread  from  it  than  you  have.  The  prospect  of  an  exposure  may 
bring  him  to  terms  when  nothing  else  will," 

I  rose  as  I  spoke,  but  Laura  entreated  me  not  to  leave  her. 

12 


2GG  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

"  Yoli  will  drive  liira  to  desperation,"  she  said,  "and  increase  out 
danfjors  tenfold." 

I  felt  the  truth — the  disheartening  truth — of  those  words.  But  I 
could  not  bring  myself  plainly  to  acknowledge  it  to  her.  In  our 
dreadful  position  there  was  no  help  and  no  hope  for  us  but  in  risk- 
ing the  worst.  I  said  so,  in  guarded  terms.  She  sighed  bitterly, 
but  did  not  contest  the  matter.  She  only  asked  about  the  second 
letter  that  I  had  proposed  w^riting.  To  whom  was  it  to  be  ad- 
dressed ? 

"■  To  Mr.  Fairlie,"  I  said.  "  Your  uncle  is  your  nearest  male  rela- 
tive, and  the  head  of  the  family.     He  must  and  shall  interfere." 

Laura  shook  her  head  sorrowfully. 

"•  Yes,  yes,"  I  went  on,  "  your  uncle  is  a  weak,  selfish,  worldly  man, 
I  know\  But  he  is  not  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  and  he  has  no  such  fiiend 
about  him  as  Count  Fosco.  I  expect  nothing  from  his  kindness,  or 
his  tenderness  of  feeling  toward  you,  or  toward  me.  But  he  will  do 
any  thing  to  pamper  his  owm  indolence  and  to  secure  his  own  quiet. 
Let  me  only  persuade  him  that  his  interference  at  this  moment  will 
save  him  inevitable  trouble  and  wretchedness  and  resix)n8ibility 
hereafter,  and  he  will  bestir  himself  for  his  own  sake.  I  know  how 
to  deal  w  ith  him,  Laura — I  have  had  some  practice." 

"  If  you  could  only  prevail  on  him  to  let  me  go  back  to  Limmer- 
idge  for  a  little  while,  and  stay  there  quietly  wdth  you,  Marian,  I 
could  be  almost  as  happy  again  as  I  was  before  I  w^as  married  I" 

Those  words  set  me  thinking  in  a  new  direction.  Would  it  be 
possible  to  place  Sir  Percival  between  the  two  alternatives  of  either 
exposing  himself  to  the  scandal  of  legal  interference  on  his  wife's 
behalf,  or  of  allowing  her  to  be  quietly  separated  from  him  for  a 
time,  under  pretext  of  a  visit  to  her  uncle's  house  ?  And  could  he, 
in  that  case,  be  reckoned  on  as  likely  to  accept  the  last  resource  ? 
It  was  doubtful — more  than  doubtful.  And  yet,  hoix^less  as  the 
experiment  .seemed,  surely  it  was  worth  tr\'ing?  I  resolved  to  try 
it,  in  sheer  despair  of  knowing  what  better  to  do. 

"  Your  uncle  shall  know  the  wish  you  have  just  expressed,"  I 
said ;  ''  and  I  will  ask  the  lawyer's  advice  on  the  subject,  as  well. 
Good  may  come  of  it — and  w^ill  come  of  it,  I  hope." 

Saying  that,  I  rose  again,  and  again  Laura  tried  to  make  me  re- 
sume my  seat. 

''  Don't  leave  me,"  she  said,  uneasily.  "  ^ly  desk  is  on  that  table. 
You  can  write  here." 

It  tried  me  to  the  quick  to  refuse  her,  even  in  her  own  interests. 
But  we  had  been  too  long  shut  up  alone  together  already.  Our 
chance  of  seeing  each  other  again  might  entirely  depend  on  our 
not  exciting  any  fresh  suspicions.  It  was  full  time  to  show  myself, 
(piictly  and  ime(>neernedly,  among  the  wretches  who  were  at  that 


THE    WOilAX    IN    WHITE.  267 

very  moment,  perhaps,  thinking  of  ns  and  talking  of  lis  down  stairs. 
I  explained  the  miserable  necessity-  to  Laura,  and  prevailed  on  her 
to  recognize  it,  as  I  did, 

"  I  will  come  back  again,  love,  in  an  hour  or  less,"  I  said.  "  The 
worst  is  over  for  to-day.     Keep  yourself  quiet,  and  fear  nothing." 

"  Is  the  key  in  the  door,  Marian  ?     Can  I  lock  it  on  the  inside  V 

"  Yes,  here  is  the  key.  Lock  the  door,  and  open  it  to  nobody  un- 
til I  come  up  stairs  again." 

I  kissed  her,  and  left  her.  It  was  a  relief  to  me,  as  I  walked 
away,  to  hear  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  and  to  know  that  the 
door  was  at  her  own  command. 

VIII. 

June  WtJi. — I  had  only  got  as  flir  as  the  top  of  the  stairs  when 
the  locking  of  Laura's  door  suggested  to  me  the  precaution  of  also 
locking  my  own  door,  and  keeping  the  key  safely  about  me  while 
I  was  out  of  the  room.  My  journal  was  already  secured,  with  other 
papers,  in  the  table-drawer,  but  my  writing  materials  were  left  out. 
These  included  a  seal,  bearing  the  common  device  of  two  doves 
drinking  out  of  the  same  cup,  and  some  sheets  of  blotting  paper, 
which  had  the  impression  on  them  of  the  closing  lines  of  my  writ- 
ing in  these  pages,  traced  during  the  past  night.  Distorted  by  the 
suspicion  which  had  now  become  a  part  of  myself,  even  such  triiles 
as  these  looked  too  dangerous  to  be  trusted  without  a  guard — even 
ihe  locked  table-drawer  seemed  to  be  not  sufficiently  protected,  in 
my  absence,  until  the  means  of  access  to  it  had  been  carefully  se- 
cured as  well. 

1  xbund  no  appearance  of  any  one  having  entered  the  room  while 
i  had  been  talking  with  Laura.  My  writing  materials  (which  I  had 
^veti  the  servant  instructions  never  to  meddle  with)  were  scattered 
over  the  table  much  as  usual.  The  only  circumstance  in  connection 
with  rhem  that  at  all  struck  me  was,  that  the  seal  lay  tidily  in  the 
tray  w  ith  the  pencils  and  the  wax.  It  was  not  in  my  careless  hab- 
its (I  um  sorry  to  say)  to  put  it  there ;  neither  did  I  remember  put- 
ting it  there.  But,  as  I  could  not  call  to  mind,  on  the  other  hand, 
where  ^lse  I  had  thrown  it  down,  and  as  I  was  also  doubtful  wheth- 
c'r  I  might  not,  for  once,  have  laid  it  mechanically  in  the  right  place, 
1  abstained  from  adding  to  the  perplexity  with  which  the  day's 
events  had  -filled  my  mind,  by  troubling  it  afresh  about  a  trifle.  I 
locked  the  door,  put  tlie  key  in  my  pocket,  and  went  down  stairs. 

Madume  Fosco  was  alone  in  the  hall,  looking  at  the  weather- 
glass. 

''  Still  falling,"  she  said.  ''  I  am  afraid  we  must  expect  more 
rain." 

Her  face  was  composed  again  to  its  customary  expression  and  its 


268  THE    WOMAN    IN    WIIITK. 

customary  color.     But  the  liand  with  which  she  pointed  to  the  dial 
of  the  weather-glass  still  trembled. 

Could  she  have  told  her  luisband  already  that  she  had  overheard 
Laura  reviling  him,  in  my  company,  as  a  '•  Spy  ?"  My  strong  sus- 
picion that  she  must  have  told  him ;  my  irresistible  dread  (all  the 
more  oveq^owering  from  its  very  vagueness)  of  the  consequences 
which  might  follow ;  my  fixed  conviction,  derived  from  various  lit- 
tle self-betrayals  which  women  notice  in  each  other,  that  Madame 
Fosco,  in  spite  of  her  well-assumed  exteraal  civility,  had  not  for- 
given her  niece  for  innocently  standing  between  her  and  the  legacy 
often  thousand  pounds — all  rushed  upon  my  mind  together,  all  im- 
pelled me  to  speak,  in  the  vain  hope  of  using  my  own  influence  and 
my  own  powers  of  persuasion  for  the  atonement  of  Laura's  offense, 

"  May  I  trust  to  your  kindness  to  excuse  me,  Madame  Fosco,  if  I 
venture  to  speak  to  you  on  an  exceedingly  painful  subject  V 

She  crossed  her  hands  in  front  of  her,  and  bowed  her  head  sol- 
emnly, without  uttering,  a  word,  and  without  taking  her  eyes  olf 
mine  for  a  moment, 

"  When  you  were  so  good  as  to  bring  me  back  my  handkerchief," 
I  went  on,  "■  I  am  very,  very  much  afraid  you  must  have  accidentally 
heard  Laura  say  something  which  I  am  unwilling  to  repeat,  and 
which  I  will  not  attempt  to  defend,  I  will  only  venture  to  hope 
that  you  have  not  thought  it  of  sufficient  importance  to  be  mention- 
ed to  the  Count  ?*' 

"  I  think  it  of  no  importance  whatever,''  said  Madame  Fosco, 
sharply  and  suddenly,  "  But,"  she  added,  resuming  her  icy  man- 
ner in  a  moment, ''  I  have  no  secrets  from  my  husband,  even  in  tri- 
fles. When  he  noticed,  just  now,  that  I  looked  distressed,  it  was  my 
painful  duty  to  tell  him  why  I  was  distressed ;  and  I  frankly  ac- 
knowledge to  you.  Miss  Halcombe,  that  I  have  told  him." 

I  was  prepared  to  hear  it,  and  yet  she  turned  me  cold  all  over 
when  she  said  those  words. 

"  Let  me  earnestly  entreat  you,  Madame  Fosco — let  mc  earnestly 
entreat  the  Count — to  make  some  allowances  for  the  sad  position  in 
which  my  sister  is  placed.  She  spoke  while  she  was  smarting  un- 
der the  insult  and  injustice  inflicted  on  her  by  her  husband,  and  she 
was  not  herself  when  she  said  those  rash  words.  May  I  hope  that 
they  will  be  considerately  and  generously  forgiven  ?" 

"■  Most  assuredly,"  said  the  Count's  quiet  voice,  behind  me.  He 
had  stolen  on  us  with  his  noiseless  tread,  and  his  book  in  his  hand; 
from  the  library, 

''  When  Lady  Clyde  said  those  hasty  words,"  he  went  on,  ''  she 
did  me  an  injustice,  wliich  I  lament — and  forgive.  Let  us  never  re- 
turn to  the  sul>ject.  Miss  Ilalcombe ;  let  us  all  comfortably  combine 
to  forget  it,  from  this  moment." 


HE    TOOK    MY    IIAXD    AND    I'UT   IT    TO    UlS    TOISOXOUS    LirS. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  271 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  I  said  ;  "  you  relieve  me  inexpressibly — " 

I  tried  to  continue,  but  his  eyes  were  on  me ;  his  deadly  smile, 
that  hides  every  thing,  was  set,  hard  and  unwavering,  on  his  broad, 
smooth  face.  My  distrust  of  his  unfathomable  falseness,  my  sense 
of  my  own  degradation  in  stooping  to  conciliate  his  wife  and  him- 
self, so  disturbed  and  confused  me  that  the  next  words  failed  on  my 
lips,  and  I  stood  there  in  silence. 

''  I  beg  you  on  my  knees  to  say  no  more.  Miss  Halcombe ;  I  am 
truly  shocked  that  you  should  have  thought  it  necessary  to  say  so 
much."  With  that  polite  speech  he  took  my  hand — oh,  how  I  de- 
spise myself!  oh,  how  little  comfort  there  is  even  in  knowing  that  I 
submitted  to  it  for  Laura's  sake ! — he  took  my  hand,  and  put  it  to 
his  poisonous  lips.  Never  did  I  know  all  my  horror  of  him  till 
then.  That  innocent  familiarity  turned  my  blood  as  if  it  had  been 
the  vilest  insult  that  a  man  could  offer  me.  Yet  I  hid  my  disgust 
from  him — I  tried  to  smile — I,  who  ones  mercilessly  despised  deceit 
in  other  women,  was  as  false  as  the  worst  of  them,  as  false  as  the 
Judas  whose  lips  had  touched  my  hand. 

I  could  not  have  maintained  my  degrading  self-control — it  is  all 
that  redeems  me  in  my  own  estimation  to  know  that  I  could  not — 
if  he  had  still  continued  to  keep  his  eyes  on  my  face.  His  wife's 
tigerish  jealousy  came  to  my  rescue,  and  forced  his  attention  away 
from  me  the  moment  he  possessed  himself  of  my  hand.  Her  cold 
blue  eyes  caught  light ;  her  dull  white  cheeks  flushed  into  bright 
color  ;  she  looked  years  younger  than  her  age,  in  an  instant. 

"  Count !"  she  said.  "  Your  foreign  forms  of  politeness  are  not 
understood  by  Englishwomen." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  angel !  The  best  and  dearest  Englishwoman  in 
the  world  understands  them."  With  those  words  he  dropped  my 
hand,  and  quietly  raised  his  wife's  hand  to  his  lips  in  place  of  it. 

I  ran  back  up  the  stairs,  to  take  refuge  in  my  own  room.  If 
there  had  been  time  to  think,  my  thoughts,  when  I  was  alone  again, 
would  have  caused  me  bitter  suffering.  But  there  was  no  time  to 
think.  Happily  for  the  preservation  of  my  calmness  and  my  cour- 
age, there  was  time  for  nothing  but  action. 

The  letters  to  the  lawyer  and  to  Mr.  Fairlie  were  still  to  be  writ- 
ten, and  I  sat  down  at  once,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  to  devote 
myself  to  them. 

There  was  no  multitude  of  resources  to  perplex  me — there  was 
absolutely  no  one  to  depend  on,  in  the  first  instance,  but  myself 
Sir  Percival  had  neither  friends  nor  relatives  in  the  neighborhood 
whose  intercession  I  could  attempt  to  employ.  He  was  on  the  cold- 
est terms — in  some  cases,  on  the  worst  terms — with  the  families  of 
his  own  rank  and  station  who  lived  near  him.  We  two  women  had 
neither  father  nor  brother  to  come  to  the  house  and  take  our  parts. 


272  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

There  was  no  choice  but  to  write  those  two  doubtful  letters,  or  to 
put  Laura  in  the  wrong  and  myself  in  the  wrong,  and  to  make  all 
])eaceable  negotiation  in  the  future  impossible  by  secretly  escaping 
from  Blackwatcr  Park.  Nothing  but  t]ie  most  imminent  personal 
peril  could  justify  our  taking  that  second  course.  The  letters  must 
be  tried  first,  and  I  wrote  them. 

I  said  nothing  to  the  lawyer  about  Anne  Catherick,  because  (as  I 
had  already  hinted  to  Laura)  that  topic  was  connected  with  a  mys- 
ytery  which  we  could  not  yet  explain,  and  which  it  would,  therefore, 
be  useless  to  write  about  to  a  professional  man.  I  left  my  corre- 
spondent to  attribute  Sir  Percivars  disgraceful  conduct,  if  he 
pleased,  to  fresh  disputes  about  money  matters,  and  simply  consulted 
him  on  the  possibility  of  taking  legal  proceedings  for  Laura's  pro- 
tection, in  the  event  of  her  husband's  refiisal  to  allow  her  to  leave 
Blackwatcr  Park  for  a  time  and  return  with  me  to  Limmeridge.  I 
referred  him  to  Mr.  Fairlie  for  the  details  of  this  last  arrangement — 
I  assured  him  that  I  wrote  with  Laura's  authority — and  I  ended  by 
entreating  him  to  act  in  her  name  to  the  utmost  extent  of  his  power, 
and  with  the  least  possible  loss  of  time. 

The  letter  to  Mr.  Fairlie  occupied  me  next.  I  appealed  to  him  on 
the  terms  M-hich  I  had  mentioned  to  Laura  as  the  most  likely  to 
make  him  bestir  himself;  I  inclosed  a  copy  of  my  letter  to  the  law- 
yer, to  show  him  how  serious  the  case  was ;  and  I  represented  our 
removal  to  Limmeridge  as  the  only  compromise  which  would  pre- 
vent the  danger  and  distress  of  Laura's  present  position  from  inev- 
itably aflecting  her  uncle  as  well  as  herself,  at  no  very  distant  time. 

When  I  had  done,  and  had  sealed  and  directed  the  two  envelopes, 
I  went  back  with  the  letters  to  Laura's  room,  to  show  her  that  they 
were  written. 

"  Has  any  body  disturbed  you  ?"  I  asked,  when  she  opened  the  door 
to  me. 

"  Nobody  has  knocked,"  she  replied.  "  But  I  heard  some  one  in 
the  outer  room." 

^'  Was  it  a  man  or  a  woman  ?" 

"  A  woman.     I  heard  the  rustling  of  her  gown." 

"  A  rustling  like  silk  ?" 

"  Yes,  like  silk." 

Madame  Fosco  had  evidently  been  watching  outside.  The  mis- 
chief she  might  do  by  herself  was  little  to  be  feared.  But  the  mis- 
chief she  might  do  as  a  willing  instrument  in  her  husband's  hands 
was  too  formidable  to  be  overlooked. 

"  What  became  of  the  rustling  of  the  gown  when  you  no  longer 
heard  it  in  the  anteroom  ?"  I  inquired.  "  Did  you  hear  it  go  past 
your  wall, along  the  passage?" 

"Yes.     1  kept  still,  and  listened,  and  just  heard  it," 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  273 

"  Which  way  did  it  go  C 

''  Toward  your  room.'' 

I  considered  again.  Tlie  sound  had  not  caught  my  ears.  But  I 
was  then  deeply  al^sorbed  in  my  lettei-s,  and  I  write  with  a  lieavy 
hand  and  a  quill  pen,  scraping  and  scratching  noisily  over  the  pa- 
per. It  was  more  likely  that  ]Madame  Fosco  would  hear  the  scraping 
of  my  pen  than  that  I  should  hear  the  rustling  of  her  dress.  An- 
other reason  (if  I  had  wanted  one )  for  not  trusting  my  letters  to  the 
post-bag  in  the  hall. 

Laura  saw  me  thinking.  *'  More  difficulties  I''  she  said,  wearily ; 
"  more  difficulties  and  more  dangers  I'' 

"  No  dangers,"  I  replied.  '•  Some  little  difficulty,  perhaps,  I  am 
thinking  of  the  safest  way  of  putting  my  two  letters  into  Fanny's 
hands.'" 

"  You  have  really  written  them,  then  ?  Oh,  Marian,  run  no  risks 
— pray,  pray  run  no  risks  I'' 

"  No,  no — no  fear.     Let  me  see — what  o'clock  is  it  now  V 

It  was  a  quarter  to  six.  There  would  be  time  for  me  to  get  to 
the  village  inn,  and  to  come  back  again,  before  dinner.  If  I  waited 
till  the  evening,  I  might  find  no  second  opportunity  of  safely  leaving 
the  house. 

"  Keep  the  key  turned  in  the  lock,  Laura,"  I  said,  '•  and  don't  be 
afraid  about  me.  If  you  hear  any  inquiries  made,  call  through  the 
door,  and  say  that  I  am  gone  out  for  a  walk." 

'•  When  shall  you  be  back  V 

"•  Before  dinner,  without  fail.  Courage,  my  love.  By  this  time  to- 
morrow you  will  have  a  clear-headed,  trustworthy  man  acting  for 
your  good.  Mr.  Gilmore's  partner  is  our  next  best  friend  to  Mr.  Gil- 
more  himself" 

A  moment's  retiection,  as  soon  as  I  was  alone,  convinced  me  that 
I  had  better  not  appear  in  my  walking-dress  until  I  had  first  dis- 
covered what  v>'as  going  on  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house.  I  had 
not  ascertained  yet  whether  Sir  Fercival  was  indoors  or  out. 

The  singing  of  the  canaries  in  the  library,  and  the  smell  of  tobac- 
co-smoke that  came  through  the  door,  which  was  not  closed,  told 
me  at  once  where  the  Count  was.  I  looked  over  my  shoulder  as  I 
passed  the  door-way,  and  saw,  to  my  surprise,  that  he  was  exhibiting 
the  docility  of  the  birds,  in  his  most  engagingly  polite  manner,  to 
the  housekeeper.  He  must  have  specially  invited  her  to  see  them,  for 
she  would  never  have  thought  of  going  into  the  library  of  her  own  ac- 
cord. The  man's  slightest  actions  had  a  purpose  of  some  kind  at  the 
bottom  of  every  one  of  them.     What  could  be  his  purpose  here  ? 

It  was  no  time  then  to  inquire  into  his  motives.  I  looked  about 
for  Madame  Fosco  next,  and  found  her  following  her  favorite  circle, 
round  and  round  the  fish-pond. 

12* 


274  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

I  was  a  little  doubtful  how  slie  would  meet  me,  after  the  outbreak 
of  jealousy  of  which  1  had  been  the  cause  so  short  a  time  since.  But 
lier  husband  had  tamed  her  in  the  interval,  and  she  now  spoke  to 
me  with  the  same  civility  as  usual.  My  only  object  in  addressing 
myself  to  her  was  to  ascertain  if  she  knew  what  had  become  of  Sir 
Percival.  I  contrived  to  refer  to  him  indirectly,  and,  after  a  little 
fencing  on  either  side,  she  at  last  mentioned  that  he  had  gone  out. 

"  Which  of  the  horses  has  he  taken  ?"  I  asked,  carelessly. 

"  None  of  them,"  she  replied.  ''  He  w^ent  away,  two  hours  since, 
on  foot.  As  I  understood  it,  his  object  was  to  make  fresh  inquiries 
about  the  woman  named  Anne  Catherick.  He  appears  to  be  unrea- 
sonably anxious  about  tracing  her.  Do  you  happen  to  know  if  she 
is  dangerously  mad.  Miss  Halcombe  ?" 

"  I  do  not.  Countess." 

"  Are  you  going  in  V 

"  Yes,  I  think  so.  I  suppose  it  will  soon  be  time  to  dress  for  din- 
ner." 

We  entered  the  house  together.  Madame  Fosco  strolled  into  the 
library,  and  closed  the  door.  I  went  at  once  to  fetch  my  hat  and 
shawl.  Every  moment  was  of  importance,  if  I  was  to  get  to  Fanny 
at  the  inn  and  be  back  before  dinner. 

When  I  crossed  the  hall  again,  no  one  was  there,  and  the  singing 
of  the  birds  in  the  library  had  ceased.  I  could  not  stop  to  make  any 
fresh  investigations.  I  could  only  assure  myself  that  the  way  was 
clear,  and  then  leave  the  house,  wdth  the  two  letters  safe  in  my 
pocket. 

On  my  way  to  the  village,  I  prepared  myself  for  the  possibility 
of  meeting  Sir  Percival.  As  long  as  I  had  him  to  deal  with  alone, 
I  felt  certain  of  not  losing  my  presence  of  mind.  Any  woman  who 
is  sure  of  her  own  wits  is  a  match,  at  any  time,  for  a  man  who  is  not 
sure  of  his  own  temper.  I  had  no  such  fear  of  Sir  Percival  as  I  had 
of  the  Count.  Instead  of  fluttering,  it  had  composed  me,  to  hear  of 
the  errand  on  which  he  had  gone  out.  While  the  tracing  of  Anne 
Catherick  was  the  great  anxiety  that  occupied  him,  Laura  and  I 
might  hope  for  some  cessation  of  any  active  persecution  at  his 
hands.  For  our  sakes  now,  as  well  as  for  Anne's,  I  hoped  and 
prayed  fervently  that  she  might  still  escape  him. 

I  walked  on  as  briskly  as  the  heat  would  let  me  till  I  reached  the 
cross-road  wiiich  led  to  the  village,  looking  back,  from  time  to  time, 
to  make  sur^'  tliat  I  was  not  followed  by  any  one. 

Nothing  was  behind  me,  all  the  way,  but  an  empty  country  wag- 
on. The  noise  made  by  the  lumbering  wheels  annoyed  me,  and 
when  I  found  that  the  wagon  took  the  road  to  the  village,  as  well 
as  myself,  I  stopped  to  let  it  go  by  and  pass  out  of  hearing.  As  I 
looked  toward  it,  more  attentively  than  before,  I  thought  I  detected, 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  275 

at  intervals,  the  feet  of  a  man  walking  close  behind  it,  the  carter  be- 
ing in  front,  by  the  side  of  his  horses.  The  part  of  the  cross-road 
which  I  had  just  passed  over  was  so  narrow  that  the  wagon  coming 
after  me  brushed  the  trees  and  thickets  on  either  side,  and  I  had 
to  wait  until  it  went-  by  before  I  could  test  the  correctness  of  my 
impression.  Apparently  that  impression  was  wrong,  for  when  the 
wagon  had  passed  me  the  road  behind  it  was  quite  clear. 

I  reached  the  inn  without  meeting  Sir  Percival,  and  without  no- 
ticing any  thing  more,  and  was  glad  to  find  that  the  landlady  had 
received  Fanny  with  all  possible  kindness.  The  girl  had  a  little 
parlor  to  sit  in,  away  from  the  noise  of  the  tap-room,  and  a  clean 
bed-chamber  at  the  top  of  the  house.  She  began  crying  again,  at 
the  sight  of  me.  and  said,  poor  soul,  truly  enough,  that  it  was  dread- 
ful to  feel  herself  turned  out  into  the  world,  as  if  she  had  committed 
some  unpardonable  fault,  when  no  blame  could  be  laid  at  her  door 
by  any  body — not  even  by  her  master  who  had  sent  her  away. 

''  Try  to  make  the  best  of  it,  Fanny,"  I  said.  '*  Your  mistress  and 
I  will  stand  your  friends,  and  will  take  care  that  your  character 
shall  not  suffer.  Xow,  listen  to  me.  I  have  veiy  little  time  to 
spare,  and  I  am  going  to  put  a  great  trust  in  your  hands.  I  wish 
you  to  take  care  of  these  two  letters.  The  one  with  the  stamp  on 
it  you  are  to  put  into  the  post  when  you  reach  London,  to-morrow. 
The  other,  directed  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  you  are  to  deliver  to  him  your- 
self, as  soon  as  you  get  home.  Keep  both  the  letters  about  you, 
and  give  them  up  to  no  one.  They  are  of  the  last  importance  to 
your  mistress's  interests.'' 

Fanny  put  the  letters  into  the  bosom  of  her  dress.  "  There  they 
shall  stop,  miss,''  she  said,  "  till  I  have  done  what  you  tell  me." 

"  Mind  you  are  at  the  station  in  good  time  to-morrow  morning," 
I  continued.  '*  And  when  you  see  the  housekeeper  at  Limmeridge, 
give  her  my  compliments,  and  say  that  you  are  in  my  service  until 
Lady  Glyde  is  able  to  take  you  back.  We  may  meet  again  sooner 
than  you  think.  So  keep  a  good  heart,  and  don't  miss  the  seven- 
o'clock  train." 

"  Thank  you,  miss ;  thank  you  kindly.  It  gives  one  courage  to 
iiear  your  voice  again.  Please  to  offer  my  duty  to  my  lady,  and  say 
I  left  all  the  things  as  tidy  as  I  could  in  the  time.  Oh,  dear !  dear ! 
who  will  dress  her  for  dinner  to-day  ?  It  really  breaks  my  heart, 
miss,  to  think  of  it." 

When  I  got  back  to  the  house,  I  had  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to 
spare  to  put  myself  in  order  for  dinner,  and  to  say  two  words  to 
Laura  before  I  went  down  stairs. 

"  The'  letters  are  in  Fanny's  hands,"  I  whispered  to  her,  at  the 
door.     '*  Do  you  mean  to  join  us  at  dinner  ?" 


2 70  TIIK    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

'*  Oh  no,  no — not  for  the  world  !" 

''  Has  smy  thing  happened  ?     Has  any  one  disturbed  you?" 

"  Yes — ^just  now — Sir  Percival — " 

"  Did  he  come  in  ?" 

''No;  he  frightened  me  by  a  thump  on  the  door,  outside.  I 
said, '  Who's  there  V  '  You  know,'  he  answered.  '  AVill  you  alter 
your  mind,  and  tell  me  the  rest  ?  You  shall !  Sooner  or  later  I'll 
wring  it  out  of  you.  You  know  where  Anne  Catherick  is  at  this 
moment  I'  '  Indeed,  indeed,'  I  said,  '  I  don't.'  '  You  do  I'  he  called 
back.  '  ril  crush  your  obstinacy — mind  that  I — I'll  wring  it  out  of 
you  1'  He  went  away,  with  those  words — went  away,  Marian,  hard- 
ly five  minutes  ago." 

He  had  not  found  Anne  I  We  were  safe  for  that  night — he  had 
not  found  her  yet. 

"  You  are  going  down  stairs,  Marian  ?  Come  up  again  in  the 
evening.'' 

"  Yes,  yes.  Don't  be  uneasy  if  I  am  a  little  late — I  must  be  care- 
ful not  to  give  offense  by  leaving  them  too  soon.'' 

The  dinner-bell  rang,  and  I  hastened  away. 

Sir  Percival  took  Madame  Fosco  into  the  dining-room,  and  the 
Count  gave  me  his  arm.  He  was  hot  and  flushed,  and  was  not 
dressed  with  his  customary  care  and  completeness.  Had  he,  too, 
been  out  before  dinner,  and  been  late  in  getting  back  ?  or  was  he 
only  sufi*ering  from  the  heat  a  little  more  severely  than  usual  ? 

However  this  might  be,  he  was  unquestionably  troubled  by  some 
secret  annoyance  or  anxiety,  which,  with  all  his  powers  of  decep- 
tion, he  was  not  able  entirely  to  conceal.  Through  the  whole  of 
dinner  he  was  almost  as  silent  as  Sir  Percival  himself,  and  he.  every 
now  and  then,  looked  at  his  wife  with  an  expression  of  furtive  un- 
easiness which  was  quite  new  in  my  experience  of  him.  The  one 
social  obligation  which  he  seemed  to  be  self-possessed  enough  to 
perfonn  as  carefully  as  ever  was  the  obligation  of  being  persistently 
civil  and  attentive  to  me.  What  vile  object  he  has  in  view  I  can 
not  still  discover ;  but,  be  the  design  what  it  may,  invariable  polite- 
ness toward  myself,  invariable  humility  toward  Laura,  and  invari- 
able suppression  (at  any  cost)  of  Sir  Percival's  clumsy  violence,  have 
been  the  means  he  has  resolutely  and  impenetrably  used  to  get  to 
his  end,  ever  since  he  set  foot  in  this  house.  I  suspected  it  when 
he  first  interfered  in  our  favor,  on  the  day  when  the  deed  was  pro- 
duced in  the  library',  and  I  feel  certain  of  it  now. 

When  Madame  Fosco  and  I  rose  to  leave  the  table,  the  Count  rose 
also  to  accompany  us  back  to  the  drawing-room. 

"  What  are  you  going  away  for  ?"  asked  Sir  Percival — '*  I  mean 
you,  Fosco." 

"  I  am  going  away  because  I  have  had  dinner  enough,  and  wine 


THE    WOMAX    IS    WHITE.  277 

eTioiigh,'' cinswercd  the  Count.  "Be  so  kind,  Pcrcival,  as  to  make 
allowances  for  my  foreign  lialjit  of  going  out  with  the  ladies,  as 
well  as  coming  in  with  tlieni." 

"  Nonsense  I  Another  glass  of  claret  won't  hurt  you.  Sit  down 
again  like  an  Englishman.  I  want  half  an  hour's  quiet  talk  witli 
you  over  our  wine." 

"A  quiet  talk,  Percival,  witli  all  my  heart,  but  not  now,  and  not 
Dver  the  wine.  Later  in  the  evening,  if  you  please — later  in  the 
3vening." 

"  Civil! '  said  Sir  Percival,  savagely.  "Civil  behavior,  upon  my 
soul,  to  a  man  in  his  own  house  !" 

I  had  more  than  once  seen  him  look  at  the  Count  uneasily  during 
dinner-time,  and  had  observed  that  the  Count  carefully  abstained 
from  looking  at  him  in  return.  This  circumstance,  coupled  with 
the  host's  anxiety  for  a  little  quiet  talk  over  the  wine  and  the 
guest's  obstinate  resolution  not  to  sit  down  again  at  the  table,  re- 
vived in  my  memory  the  request  which  Sir  Percival  had  vainly  ad- 
dressed to  his  friend,  earlier  in  the  day,  to  come  out  of  the  library 
and  speak  to  him.  The  Count  had  deferred  granting  that  private 
interview  when  it  was  first  asked  for  in  the  afternoon,  and  had 
agam  deferred  granting  it  when  it  was  a  second  time  asked  for  at 
the  dinner-table.  Whatever  the  coming  subject  of  discussion  be- 
tween them  might  be,  it  was  clearly  an  important  subject  in  Sir 
Percival's  estimation — and  perhaps  (judging  from  his  evident  re- 
luctance to  approach  it;  a  dangerous  subject  as  well,  in  the  estima- 
tion of  the  Count. 

These  considerations  occurred  to  me  wiiile  we  were  passing  from 
the  dining-room  to  the  drawing-room.  Sir  Percival's  angry  com- 
mentary on  his  friend's  desertion  of  him  had  not  produced  the 
slightest  effect.  The  Count  obstinately  accompanied  us  to  the  tea- 
table — waited  a  minute  or  two  in  the  room — went  out  into  the  hall 
— and  returned  with  the  post-bag  in  his  hands.  It  was  then  eight 
o'clock — the  hour  at  which  the  letters  were  always  dispatched  from 
Blackwater  Park. 

"  Have  you  any  letter  for  the  post.  Miss  Halcombe  ?"  he  asked,  ap- 
proaching me  with  the  bag. 

I  saw  ikladame  Fosco,  wdio  was  making  the  tea,  pause,  with  the 
sugar-tongs  in  her  hand,  to  listen  for  my  answer. 

"  No,  Count,  thank  you.     No  letters  to-day." 

He  gave  tiie  bag  to  the  servant,  who  was  then  in  the  room,  sat 
down  at  the  piano,  and  played  the  air  of  the  lively  Neapolitan  street- 
song,  "  La  mia  Carolina,"  twice  over.  His  wife,  who  was  usually 
the  most  deliberate  of  women  in  all  her  movements,  made  the  tea 
as  quickly  as  I  could  have  made  it  myself,  finished  her  own  cup  in 
two  minutes,  and  quietly  glided  out  of  the  room. 


278  Tin-:  woman  in  aviiite. 

I  rose  to  follow  her  example,  partly  because  I  suspecterl  her  of 
iittemptin;,''  some  treachery  up  stairs  with  Laura,  partly  because  I 
was  resolved  net  to  remain  alone  in  tlie  same  room  with  her  hus- 
band. 

Before  I  could  get  to  the  door  the  Count  stopped  me,  by  a  request 
for  a  cup  of  tea,  I  gave  him  the  cup  of  tea,  and  tried  a  second  time 
to  get  away.  He  stopped  me  again — this  time  by  going  back  to  the 
l)iano  and  suddenly  appealing  to  me  on  a  musical  question  in  which 
he  declared  that  the  honor  of  his  country  was  concerned. 

I  vainly  pleaded  my  own  total  ignorance  of  music,  and  total  want 
of  taste  in  that  direction.  He  only  appealed  to  me  again  with  a  ve- 
hemence which  set  all  further  protest  on  my  part  at  defiance,  "  The 
English  and  the  Germans  (he  indignantly  declared)  were  always  re- 
viling the  Italians  for  their  inability  to  cultivate  the  higher  kinds 
of  music.  We  were  perpetually  talking  of  our  Oratorios ;  and  they 
were  perpetually  talking  of  their  Symphonies.  Did  we  forget  and 
did  they  forget  liis  immortal  friend  and  countryman,  Rossini  ? 
What  was  '  Moses  in  Egj-^pt '  but  a  sublime  oratorio,  vrhich  was  act- 
ed on  tlie  stage,  instead  of  being  coldly  sung  in  a  concert-room  ? 
What  was  the  overture  to  Guillaume  Tell  but  a  symphony  under 
another  name?  Had  I  heard  Moses  in  Egypt  ?  Would  I  listen  to 
this,  and  this,  and  this,  and  say  if  any  thing  more  sublimely  sacred 
and  grand  had  ever  been  composed  by  mortal  man  ?" — And,  with- 
out waiting  for  a  word  of  assent  or  dissent  on  my  part,  looking  me 
hard  in  the  face  all  the  time,  he  began  thundering  on  the  piano,  and 
singing  to  it  with  loud  and  lofty  enthusiasm,  only  interrupting  him- 
self, at  intervals,  to  announce  to  me  fiercely  the  titles  of  the  diflcr- 
ent  pieces  of  music  :  *'  Chorus  of  Egyptians,  in  the  Plague  of  Dark- 
ness, ]\Iiss  Halcombe  '"' — ''  Kecitativo  of  Moses,  with  the  tabk-s  of 
the  Law.'' — ''Prayer  of  Israelites,  at  the  passr.ge  of  the  Red  Sea. 
Aha!  Aha  I  Is  that  sacred?  Is  that  sublime?'  The  piano  trem- 
bled under  his  powerful  hands;  and  the  tea-cups  on  the  table  rat- 
tled, as  his  big  bass  voice  thundered  out  the  notes,  and  liis  heavy 
foot  beat  time  on  the  floor. 

There  was  something  horrible,  something  fierce  and  devilish,  in 
the  outburst  of  his  delight  at  his  own  singing  and  playing,  and  in 
the  triumph  with  which  he  watched  its  etfect  upon  me,  as  I  shrank 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  door.  I  was  released  at  last,  not  by  my 
own  efforts,  but  by  Sir  Percival's  interposition.  He  opened  the  din- 
ing-room door,  and  called  out  angrily  to  know  what  "  that  infernal 
noise"  meant.  The  Count  instantly  got  up  from  the  piano.  "Ah! 
if  Percival  is  coming,"  he  said,  ''harmony  and  melody  are  both  at 
an  end.  The  3Iuse  of  Music.  3Iiss  Halcombe,  deserts  us  in  dismay; 
and  L  the  fat  old  minstrel,  exhale  the  rest  of  my  enthusiasm  in  the 
open  airl"     He  stalked  out  into  the  veranda,  put  his  hands  in  his 


THE    AVOMAX    IN    WHITE.  279 

pockets,  and  resumed  the  "  recitativo  of  Moses,"  sotto  voce,  in  the 
garden, 

I  heard  Sir  Percival  call  after  him  from  the  dining-room  window. 
But  he  took  no  notice ;  he  seemed  determined  not  to  hear.  That 
long-deferred  quiet  talk  between  them  was  still  to  be  put  off,  was 
still  to  wait  for  the  Count's  absolute  will  and  pleasure. 

He  had  detained  me  in  the  drawing-room  nearly  half  an  hour 
from  the  time  when  his  wife  left  us.  Where  had  she  been,  and 
what  had  she  been  doing  in  that  interval  ? 

I  went  up  stairs  to  ascertain,  but  I  made  no  discoveries ;  and 
when  I  questioned  Laura,  I  found  that  she  had  not  heard  any  thing. 
Nobody  had  disturbed  her — no  faint  rustling  of  the  silk  dress  had 
been  audible,  either  in  the  anteroom  or  in  the  passage. 

It  was  then  twenty  minutes  to  nine.  Alter  going  to  my  room  to 
get  my  journal,  I  returned,  and  sat  with  Laura,  sometimes  writing, 
sometimes  stopping  to  talk  with  her.  Nobody  came  near  us,  and 
nothing  happened.  We  remained  together  till  ten  o'clock.  I  then 
rose,  said  my  last  cheering  words,  and  wished  her  good-night.  She 
locked  her  door  again,  after  we  had  arranged  that  I  should  come  in 
and  see  her  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 

I  had  a  few  sentences  more  to  add  to  my  diary  before  going  to 
bed  myself,  and  as  I  went  down  again  to  the  drawing-room  after 
leaving  Laura,  for  the  last  time  that  weary  day,  I  resolved  merely  to 
show  myself  there,  to  make  my  excuses,  and  then  to  retire  an  hour 
earlier  than  usual,  for  the  night. 

Sir  Percival,  and  the  Count  and  his  wife,  were  sitting  together. 
Sir  Percival  was  yawning  in  an  easy-chair ;  the  Count  was  reading ; 
Madame  Fosco  was  fanning  herself.  Strange  to  say.  Tier  face  was 
flushed  now.  She,  who  never  suffered  from  the  heat,  was  most  un- 
doubtedly suffering  from  it  to-night. 

"  I  am  afraid.  Countess,  you  are  not  quite  so  well  as  usual  ?"  I 
said. 

"  The  very  remark  I  was  about  to  make  to  you^""  she  replied. 
"You  are  looking  pale,  my  dear." 

My  dear !  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  addressed  me  with 
that  familiarity !  There  was  an  insolent  smile,  too,  on  her  face, 
when  she  said  the  words. 

"I  am  suffering  from  one  of  my  bad  headaches,"  I  answered, 
coldly. 

"Ah,  indeed  ?  Want  of  exercise,  I  suppose  ?  A  walk  before  din- 
der  would  have  been  just  the  thing  for  you."  She  referred  to  the 
"  walk  "  with  a  strange  emphasis.  Had  she  seen  me  go  out  ?  No 
matter  if  she  had.     The  letters  were  safe  now,  in  Fanny's  hands. 

"  Come,  and  have  a  smoke,  Fosco,"  said  Sir  Percival,  rising,  with 
another  uneasv  look  at  his  friend. 


280  THE  ^v<^^F.\x  i.\   \\iirri:. 

"  With  pleasure,  Percival,  when  the  hidies  have  gone  to  lied,"  re- 
plied the  Count. 

'•Excuse  me,  Countess,  if  I  set  you  the  example  of  retiring,"  I 
said.  "  The  only  remedy  for  such  a  headache  as  mine  is  going  to 
bed." 

I  took  my  leave.  Tiierc  was  the  same  insolent  smile  on  tlie  wom- 
an's face  when  I  shook  hands  with  her.  Sir  Percival  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  me.  He  was  looking  impatiently  at  Madame  Fosco,  who 
showed  no  signs  of  leaving  the  room  with  me.  The  Count  smiled 
to  himself  behind  his  book.  There  was  yet  another  delay  to  that 
quiet  talk  with  Sir  Percival — and  the  Countess  was  the  impedi- 
ment this  time. 

IX. 

June  l^th. — Once  safely  shut  into  my  own  room,  I  opened  these 
pages,  and  prepared  to  go  on  with  that  part  of  the  day's  record 
which  was  still  left  to  WTite. 

For  ten  minutes  or  more  I  sat  idle,  w  ith  the  pen  in  my  hand, 
thinking  over  the  events  of  the  last  twelve  hours.  When  I  at  last 
addressed  myself  to  my  task,  I  found  a  difficulty  in  proceeding 
with  it  which  I  had  never  experienced  before.  In  spite  of  my 
efforts  to  fix  my  thoughts  on  the  matter  in  hand,  they  wandered 
away,  with  the  strangest  persistency,  in  the  one  direction  of  Sir 
Percival  and  the  Count ;  and  all  the  interest  which  I  tried  to  con- 
centrate on  my  journal  centred,  instead,  in  that  private  interview 
})etween  them,  wdiich  had  been  put  off  all  through  the  day,  and 
which  was  new  to  take  place  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the 
night. 

In  this  perverse  state  of  my  mind,  the  recollection  of  what  had 
passed  since  the  morning  would  not  come  back  to  me ;  and  there 
was  no  resource  but  to  close  my  journal  and  to  get  away  ti'om  it 
for  a  little  while. 

I  opened  the  door  which  led  from  my  bedroom  into  my  sitting- 
room,  and  having  passed  through,  pulled  it  to  again,  to  prevent  any 
accident,  in  case  of  draught,  with  the  candle  left  on  the  dressing- 
table.  My  sitting-room  window  was  wide  open,  and  I  leaned  out, 
listlessly,  to  look  at  the  night. 

It  was  dark  and  quiet.  Neither  moon  nor  stars  were  visible. 
There  was  a  smell  like  rain  in  the  still,  heavy  air,  and  I  put  my 
hand  out  of  window.  No.  The  rain  was  only  threatening ;  it  had 
not  come  yet. 

I  remained  leaning  on  the  window-sill  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  looking  out  absently  into  the  black  darkness,  and  hearing 
nothing,  except,  now  and  then,  the  voices  of  the  servants,  or  the 
distant  sound  of  a  closing  door,  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house. 

Just  as  I  was  turning  away  wearily  from  the  window,  to  go  back 


THE    ^VOMAN    IN    WHITE.  281 

to  the  bedroom,  and  make  a  second  attempt  to  complete  the  unfin- 
ished entry  in  my  journal,  I  smelled  the  odor  of  tobacco-smoke 
stealing  toward  me  on  the  heavy  night  air.  The  next  moment  I 
saw  a  tiny  red  spark  advancing  from  the  farther  end  of  the  house, 
in  the  pitch-darkness.  I  heard  no  footsteps,  and  I  could  see  noth- 
ing but  the  spark.  It  traveled  along  in  the  night,  passed  the  win- 
dow^ at  which  I  was  standing,  and  stopped  opposite  my  bedroom 
wdndow,  inside  which  I  had  left  the  light  burning  on  the  dressing- 
table. 

The  spark  remained  stationary  for  a  moment,  then  moved  back 
again  in  the  direction  from  which  it  had  advanced.  As  I  followed 
its  progress,  I  saw  a  second  red  spark,  larger  than  the  first,  ap- 
proaching from  the  distance.  The  two  met  together  in  the  dark- 
ness. Remembering  who  smoked  cigarettes,  and  who  smoked  ci- 
gars, I  inferred  immediately  that  the  Count  had  come  out  first,  to 
look  and  listen,  under  my  window,  and  that  Sir  Percival  had  after- 
ward joined  him.  They  must  both  have  been  walking  on  the  lawn, 
or  I  should  certainly  have  heard  Sir  Percival's  heavy  footfall,  though 
the  Count's  soft  step  might  have  escaped  me,  even  on  the  gravel- 
walk. 

I  waited  quietly  at  the  window,  certain  that  they  could  neither 
of  them  see  me,  in  the  darkness  of  the  room. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  I  heard  Sir  Percival  say,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Why  don't  you  come  in  and  sit  down  ?" 

"  I  want  to  see  the  light  out  of  that  window,"  replied  the  Count, 
softly. 

"  What  harm  does  the  light  do  ?" 

"It  shows  she  is  not  in  bed  yet.  She  is  sharp  enough  to  suspect 
something,  and  bold  enough  to  come  down  stairs  and  listen,  if  she 
can  get  the  chance.     Patience,  Percival — patience." 

"  Humbug !     You're  always  talking  of  jiatience." 

"  I  shall  talk  of  something  else  presently.  My  good  friend,  you 
are  on  the  edge  of  your  domestic  precijiice  ;  and  if  I  let  you  give 
the  women  one  other  chance,  on  my  sacred  word  of  honor  they  "vnll 
push  you  over  it !" 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  We  will  come  to  our  explanations,  Percival,  when  the  light  is 
out  of  that  window,  and  when  I  have  had  one  little  look  at  the 
rooms  on  each  side  of  the  library,  and  a  peep  at  the  staircase  as 
well." 

They  slowly  moved  away,  and  the  rest  of  the  conversation  be- 
tween them  (which  had  been  conducted  throughout  in  the  same 
low  tones)  ceased  to  be  audible.  It  was  no  matter.  I  had  heard 
enough  to  determine  me  on  justifying  the  Count's  opinion  of  my 
sharpness  and  my  courage.     Before  the  red  sparks  were  out  of  sight 


282  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

in  the  darkness,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  tlierc  should  l)e  a  list- 
ener when  those  two  men  sat  down  to  their  talk,  and  that  the  list- 
ener, in  s])ite  of  all  the  Count's  precautions  to  the  contrary,  should 
be  myself.  I  wanted  but  one  motive  to  sanction  the  act  to  my  own 
conscience,  and  to  give  me  courage  enough  for  performing  it.,  and 
that  motive  I  had.  Laura's  honor,  Laura's  happiness — Laura's  life 
itself — might  depend  on  my  quick  ears  and  my  faithful  memory  to- 
night, 

I  had  heard  the  Count  say  that  he  meant  to  examine  the  rooms 
on  each  side  of  the  library,  and  the  staircase  as  well,  before  he  en- 
tered on  any  explanations  with  Sir  Percival.  This  expression  of  his 
intentions  w\as  necessarily  sufficient  to  inform  me  that  the  library 
was  the  room  in  which  he  proposed  that  the  conversation  should 
take  place.  The  one  moment  of  time  which  was  long  enough  to 
bring  me  to  that  conclusion  was  also  the  moment  which  showed  me 
a  means  of  balfling  his  precautions — or,  in  other  words,  of  hearing 
what  he  and  Sir  Percival  said  to  each  other  without  the  risk  of  de- 
scending at  all  into  the  lower  regions  of  the  house. 

In  speaking  of  the  rooms  on  the  ground-floor,  I  have  mentioned, 
incidentally,  the  veranda  outside  them,  on  which  they  all  opened  by 
means  of  French  windows,  extending  from  the  cornice  to  the  floor. 
Tlie  top  of  this  veranda  was  flat,  the  rain-water  being  carried  off 
from  it,  by  pipes,  into  tanks  which  helped  to  supply  the  house.  On 
the  narrow  leaden  roof,  which  ran  along  past  the  bedrooms,  and 
which  was  rather  less,  I  should  think,  than  three  feet  below  the  sills 
of  the  windows,  a  row  of  flower-pots  was  ranged,  with  wide  inter- 
vals between  each  pot,  the  w^hole  being  protected  from  falling,  in 
high  winds,  by  an  ornamental  iron  railing  along  the  edge  of  the 
roof 

The  plan  which  had  now  occurred  to  me  was  to  get  out,  at  my 
sitting-room  window,  on  to  this  roof;  to  creep  along  noiselessly  till 
I  reached  that  part  of  it  which  was  immediately  over  the  library 
window;  and  to  crouch  down  between  the  flower-pots,  with  my 
ear  against  the  outer  railing.  If  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  sat  and 
smoked  to-night,  as  I  had  seen  them  sitting  and  smoking  many 
nights  before,  with  their  chairs  close  at  the  open  window^  and  their 
feet  stretched  on  the  zinc  garden  seats  which  were  placed  under 
the  veranda,  every  word  they  said  to  each  other  above  a  whisper 
(and  no  long  conversation,  as  we  all  know  by  experience,  can  be 
carried  on  in  a  whisper)  must  inevitably  reach  my  ears.  If,  on  the 
other  hand,  they  chose,  to-night,  to  sit  far  l)ack:  inside  the  room, 
then  the  chances  were  that  I  should  hear  little  or  nothing ;  and,  in 
that  case,  I  must  run  the  far  more  serious  risk  of  trying  to  outwit 
them  down  stairs. 

Strongly  as  I  was  fortified  in  my  resolution  l)y  the  desperate  na- 


THE    AVO-MAN    IX    WHITE.  283 

ture  of  our  situation,  I  hoped  most  fervently  that  I  might  escape 
tills  last  emergency.     My  courage  was  only  a  woman's  courage,  af- 
ter all;  and  it  was  very  near  to  failing  me  when  I  thought  of  trust- 
ing myself  on  the  ground-floor  at  the  dead  of  night,  within  reacU:v*lL£'' 
of  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count. 

I  went  softly  back  to  my  bedroom,  to  try  the  safer  experiment  of 
tlie  veranda  roof  first. 

A  complete  change  in  my  dress  was  imperatively  necessary,  for  ^^ 
many  reasons.  I  took  off  my  silk  gown  to  begin  with,  because  the 
slightest  noise  from  it,  on  that  still  night,  might  have  betrayed  me. 
I  next  removed  the  white  and  cumbersome  parts  of  my  under-cloth- 
ing, and  replaced  them  by  a  petticoat  of  dark  flannel.  Over  this  I 
put  my  black  traveling-cloak,  and  pulled  the  hood  on  to  my  head. 
In  my  ordinary  evening  costume,  I  took  up  the  room  of  three  men 
at  least.  In  my  present  dress,  when  it  was  held  close  about  me,  no 
man  could  have  passed  through  the  narrowest  spaces  more  easily 
than  I.  The  little  breadth  left  on  the  roof  of  the  veranda,  between 
the  flower-pots  on  one  side  and  the  wall  and  the  windows  of  the 
house  on  the  other,  made  this  a  serious  consideration.  If  I  knocked 
any  thing  down,  if  I  made  the  least  noise,  who  could  say  what  the 
consequences  might  be  ? 

I  only  waited  to  put  the  matches  near  tlie  candle  before  I  extin- 
guished it,  and  groped  my  way  back  into  the  sitting-room.  I  locked 
that  door,  as  I  had  locked  my  bedroom  door,  then  quietly  got  out  of 
the  window  and  cautiously  set  my  feet  on  the  leaden  root'  of  the  ve- 
randa. 

]My  two  rooms  were  at  the  inner  extremity  of  the  new  wing  of  the 
house  in  whicii  we  all  lived,  and  I  had  five  windows  to  pass  before 
I  could  reach  the  position  it  was  necessary  to  take  up  immediately 
over  the  libraiy.  The  first  window  belonged  to  a  spare  room,  which 
was  empty.  The  second  and  third  windows  belonged  to  Laura's 
room.  The  fourth  window  belonged  to  Sir  Percivafs  room.  The 
fifth  belonged  to  the  Countess's  room.  The  others,  by  which  it  was 
not  necessary  for  me  to  pass,  were  the  windows  of  the  Count's  dress- 
ing-room, of  the  bath-room,  and  of  the  second  empty  spare  room. 

No  sound  reached  my  ears — the  black  blinding  darkness  of  the 
night  was  all  round  me  when  I  first  stood  on  the  veranda,  except  at 
that  part  of  it  which  Madame  Fosco's  window  overlooked.  There, 
at  the  very  place  above  the  library  to  which  my  course  was  directed 
— there,  I  saw  a  gleam  of  light !     The  Countess  was  not  yet  in  bed. 

It  was  too  late  to  draw  back ;  it  was  no  time  to  wait.  I  deter- 
mined to  go  on  at  all  hazards,  and  trust  for  security  to  my  own  cau- 
tion and  to  the  darkness  of  the  night.  '"  For  Laura's  sake  1"  I  thought 
to  myself,  as  I  took  the  first  step  forward  on  the  roof,  with  one  hand 
holding  my  cloak  close  round  mc.  and  the  other  groping  against  the 


284  THE    AVUilAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

wall  of  tho  house.  It  was  better  to  brush  close  by  the  wall  than  to 
risk  striking  my  feet  against  the  flower-pots  within  a  few  inclies  of 
me,  on  the  other  side. 

I  passed  the  dark  window  of  the  spare  room,  trying  the  leaden 
roof  at  each  step  with  my  foot,  before  I  risked  resting  my  weight  on 
it.  I  passed  the  dark  windows  of  Laura's  room  (''  God  bless  her  and 
keep  her  to-night !"').  I  passed  the  dark  window  of  Sir  Percival's 
room.  Then  I  waited  a  moment,  knelt  down,  with  my  hands  to  sup- 
port me,  and  so  crept  to  my  position,  under  the  protection  of  the  low 
wall  between  the  bottom  of  the  lighted  window  and  the  veranda 
roof. 

When  I  ventured  to  look  up  at  the  window  itself,  I  found  that  the 
top  of  it  only  was  open,  and  that  the  blind  inside  was  drawn  down. 
While  I  was  looking,  I  saw  the  shadow  of  Madame  Fosco  pass  across 
the  white  field  of  the  blind — then  pass  slowly  back  again.  Thus  far 
she  could  not  have  heard  me,  or  the  shadow  would  surely  have  stop- 
ped at  the  blind,  even  if  she  had  wanted  courage  enough  to  open 
the  window  and  look  out. 

I  placed  myself  sideways  against  the  railing  of  the  veranda,  first 
ascertaining,  by  touching  them,  the  position  of  the  flower-pots  on 
either  side  of  me.  There  was  room  enough  for  me  to  sit  between 
them,  and  no  more.  The  sweet-scented  leaves  of  the  flower  on  my 
left  hand  just  brushed  my  cheek  as  I  lightly  rested  my  head  against 
the  railing. 

The  first  sounds  that  reached  me  from  below  were  caused  by  the 
opening  or  closing  (most  probably  the  latter)  of  three  doors  in  suc- 
cession— the  doors,  no  doubt,  leading  into  the  hall,  and  into  the 
rooms  on  each  side  of  the  library,  which  the  Count  had  pledged 
himself  to  examine.  The  first  object  that  I  saw  was  the  red  spark 
again  traveling  out  into  the  night,  from  under  the  veranda,  moving 
away  toward  my  window,  waiting  a  moment,  and  then  returning  to 
the  place  from  which  it  had  set  out. 

' '  The  devil  take  your  restlessness  I  When  do  you  mean  to  sit 
down  ?"  growled  Sir  Percival's  voice  beneath  me. 

"OufI  how  hot  it  is  I"  said  the  Count,  sighing  and  puffing  wea- 
rily. 

His  exclamation  was  followed  by  the  scraping  of  the  garden  chairs 
on  the  tiled  pavement  under  the  veranda — the  welcome  sound  which 
told  me  they  were  going  to  sit  close  at  the  window,  as  usual.  So 
far  the  chance  was  mine.  The  clock  in  the  turret  struck  the  quar- 
ter to  twelve  as  they  settled  themselves  in  their  chairs.  I  heard 
^ladame  Fosco  through  the  open  window,  yawning,  and  saw  her 
shadow  pass  once  more  across  the  white  field  of  the  blind. 

Meanwhile,  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  began  talking  together 
below,  now  and  then  dropping  their  voices  a  little  lower  than  usual, 


Till;    STEANGENESS    AND   I'ERIL    OF    MY    SITUATION'. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  287 

but  never  sinking  them  to  a  whisper.  The  strangeness  and  peril  of 
my  situation,  the  dread,  which  I  could  not  master,  of  Madame  Fosco's 
lighted  window,  made  it  dithcult,  almost  impossible  for  me,  at  first, 
to  keep  my  presence  of  mind,  and  to  lix  my  attention  solely  on  the 
conversation  beneath.  For  some  minutes,  I  could  only  succeed  in 
gathering  the  general  substance  of  it.  I  understood  the  Count  to  say 
that  the  one  window  alight  was  his  wife's  ;  that  the  ground-floor  ot 
the  house  was  quite  clear ;  and  that  they  might  now  speak  to  each 
other  without  fear  of  accidents.  Sir  Percival  merely  answered  by 
upbraiding  his  friend  with  having  unjustifiably  sliglited  his  wishes 
and  neglected  his  interests  all  through  the  day.  The  Count,  there- 
upon, defended  himself  by  declaring  that  he  had  been  beset  by 
certain  troubles  and  anxieties  which  had  absorbed  all  his  atten- 
tion, and  that  the  only  safe  time  to  ccme  to  an  explanation  was  a 
time  when  they  could  feel  certain  of  being  neither  interrupted  nor 
overheard.  "  We  are  at  a  serious  crisis  in  our  affairs,  Percival,''  he 
said ;  "  and  if  we  are  to  decide  on  the  future  at  all,  we  must  decide 
secretly  to-night." 

That  sentence  of  the  Count's  was  the  first  which  my  attention  was 
ready  enough  to  master,  exactly  as  it  was  spoken.  From  this  point, 
with  certain  breaks  and  interruptions,  my  whole  interest  fixed 
breathlessly  on  the  conversation,  and  I  followed  it  word  for  word. 

"  Crisis  ?"  repeated  Sir  Percival.  "  It's  a  worse  crisis  than  you 
think  for,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  So  I  should  suppose,  from  your  behavior  for  the  last  day  or  two," 
returned  the  other,  coolly.  ''  But  wait  a  little.  Before  we  advance 
to  what  I  do  not  know,  let  us  be  quite  certain  of  what  I  do  know. 
Let  us  first  see  if  I  am  right  about  the  time  that  is  past,  before  I 
make  any  proposal  to  you  for  the  time  that  is  to  come." 

"  Stop  till  I  get  the  brandy-and-water.     Have  some  yourself." 

"  Thank  you,  Percival.  The  cold  water  with  pleasure,  a  spoon, 
and  the  basin  of  sugar.     Eau  sucree,  my  friend — nothing  more." 

''  Sugar-and-water,  for  a  man  of  your  age  I — There  I  mix  your  sick- 
ly mess.     You  foreigners  are  all  alike." 

"  Now  listen,  Percival.  I  will  put  our  position  plainly  before  you, 
as  I  understand  it ;  and  you  shall  say  if  I  am  right  or  wrong.  You 
and  I  both  came  back  to  this  house  from  the  Continent  Avith  our 
afi'airs  very  seriously  embarrassed — " 

"  Cut  it  short  I  I  wanted  some  thousands,  and  you  some  hun- 
dreds— and,  without  the  money,  we  were  both  in  a  fair  way  to  go  to 
the  dogs  together.  There's  the  situation.  Make  what  you  can  of 
it.     Go  on." 

"Well,  Percival,  in  your  own  solid  English  words,  you  wanted 
some  thousands  and  I  wanted  some  hundreds ;  and  the  only  way  of 
getting  them  w^as  for  you  to  raise  the  money  for  your  own  necessity 


288  THE  WOMAN  IX  wiiiTi:. 

(witli  a  small  marf^in  l>eyon(l  for  my  poor  little  fjitindreds)  by  tlie 
help  of  your  wife.  What  did  I  tell  you  about  your  wife  ou  our  way 
to  England  ?  and  what  did  I  tell  you  iigain,  when  we  had  come  here, 
and  when  I  had  seen  for  myself  the  sort  of  woman  Miss  Halcombe 
was  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  You  talked  nineteen  to  the  dozen,  I  sup- 
pose, just  as  usual." 

"  I  said  this :  Human  ingenuity,  my  friend,  has  hitherto  only  dis- 
covered two  ways  in  which  a  man  can  manage  a  woman.  One  way 
is  to  knock  her  down  —  a  method  iargely  adopted  ])y  the  brutal 
lower  orders  of  the  people,  but  utterly  abhorrent  to  the  refined  and 
educated  classes  above  them.  The  other  w^ay  (much  longer,  much 
more  difficult,  but,  in  the  end,  not  less  certain)  is  never  to  accept  a 
provocation  at  a  w^oman's  hands.  It  holds  with  animals,  it  holds 
with  children,  and  it  holds  with  women,  who  are  nothing  but  chil- 
dren grown  up.  Quiet  resolution  is  the  one  quality  the  animals, 
tlie  children,  and  the  women,  all  fail  in.  If  they  can  once  shake 
ithis  superior  quality  in  their  master,  they  get  the  better  of  Am.  If 
they  can  never  succeed  in  disturbing  it,  he  gets  the  better  of  tJiem. 
I  said  to  you.  Remember  that  plain  truth,  when  you  want  your  wife 
to  help  you  to  the  money.  I  said.  Remember  it  doubly  and  trebly, 
in  the  presence  of  your  wife's  sister.  Miss  Halcombe.  Have  you  re- 
membered it  ?  Not  once,  in  all  the  complications  that  have  twisted 
themselves  about  us  in  this  house.  Every  provocation  that  j^our 
wife  and  her  sister  could  offer  to  you,  you  instantly  accepted  from 
them.  Your  mad  temper  lost  the  signature  to  the  deed,  lost  the 
ready  money,  set  Miss  Halcombe  writing  to  the  lawyer  for  the  first 
time—" 

"  First  time  ?     Has  she  written  again  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  she  has  written  again  to-day." 

A  chair  fell  on  the  pavement  of  the  veranda — fell  with  a  crash, 
as  if  it  had  been  kicked  down. 

It  was  well  for  me  that  the  Count's  revelation  roused  Sir  Perci- 
val's  auger  as  it  did.  On  hearing  that  I  had  been  once  more  dis- 
covered, I  started  so  that  the  railing  against  which  I  leaned  cracked 
again.  Had  he  followed  me  to  the  inn  ?  Did  he  infer  that  I  must 
have  given  my  letters  to  Fanny,  when  I  told  him  I  had  none  for  the 
post  Ijag  ?  Even  if  it  was  so,  how  could  he  have  examined  the  let- 
ters, when  they  had  gone  straight  from  my  hand  to  the  bosom  of 
the  girl's  dress  ? 

"  Thank  your  lucky  star,"  I  heard  the  Count  say  next,  "  that  you 
have  me  in  the  house,  to  undo  the  harm  as  fast  as  you  do  it.  Thank 
your  lucky  star  that  I  said  No,  when  you  were  mad  enough  to  talk 
of  turning  the  key  to-day  on  ^liss  Halcpmbe,  as  you  turned  it,  in 
your  mischievous  folly,  on  your  w  ife.     Where  are  your  eyes  ?     Can 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVPIITE.  289 

Toii  look  at  Miss  Halcombe,  and  not  see  that  she  has  the  foresight 
and  the  resolution  of  a  man  ?  With  that  woman  for  my  friend,  I 
would  snap  these  fingers  of  mine  at  the  world.  With  that  woman 
for  my  enemy,  I,  with  all  my  brains  and  exjierience — I,  Fosco,  cun- 
ning as  the  devil  liimself,  as  you  have  told  me  a  hundred  times — I 
walk,  in  your  English  phrase,  upon  egg-shells  !  And  this  grand 
creature  —  I  drink  her  health  in  my  sugar-and-water — this  grand 
creature,  who  stands,  in  the  strength  of  her  love  and  her  courage, 
firm  as  a  rock  between  us  two  and  that  poor  flimsy,  pretty  blonde 
wife  of  yours — this  magnificent  woman,  whom  I  admire  with  all  my 
soul,  though  I  oppose  her  in  your  interests  and  in  mine,  you  drive 
to  extremities,  as  if  she  was  no  sharper  and  no  bolder  than  the  rest 
of  her  sex.  Percival !  Percival !  vou  deserve  to  fail,  and  you  have 
felled." 

There  was  a  pause.  I  write  the  villain's  words  about  myself  be- 
cause I  mean  to  remember  them,  because  I  hope  yet  for  the  day 
when  I  may  speak  out  once  for  all  in  his  presence,  and  cast  them 
back,  one  by  one,  in  his  teeth. 

Sir  Percival  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence  again. 

"  Yes,  yes,  bully  and  bluster  as  much  as  you  like,"  he  said,  sulkily ; 
'-the  difficulty  about  the  money  is  not  the  only  difficulty.  You 
would  be  for  taking  strong  measures  with  the  women,  yourself— if 
jou  knew  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  We  will  come  to  that  second  difficulty  all  in  good  time,"  re- 
joined the  Count.  '*  You  may  confuse  yourself,  Percival,  as  much 
as  you  please,  but  you  shall  not  confuse  me.  Let  the  question  of  the 
money  be  settled  first.  Have  I  convinced  your  obstinacy  ?  have  1 
shown  you  that  your  temper  will  not  let  you  help  yourself? — Or 
must  I  go  back,  and  (as  you  put  it  in  your  dear,  straightforward  En- 
glish) bully  and  bluster  a  little  more  ?" 

"  Pooh  !  It's  easy  enough  to  grumble  at  me.  Say  what  i?  to  be 
done — that's  a  little  harder." 

"Is  it  ?  Bah  !  This  is  what  is  to  be  done :  You  give  up  all  di- 
rection in  the  business  from  to-night ;  you  leave  it,  for  the  future, 
in  my  hands  only.  I  am  talking  to  a  Practical  British  man — ha  ? 
Well,  Practical,  will  that  do  for  you  ?" 

"  What  do  you  propose,  if  I  leave  it  all  to  you  ?" 

"  Answer  me  first.     Is  it  to  be  in  my  hands  or  not  ?" 

"  Say  it  is  in  your  hands — what  then  ?" 

"  A  few  questions,  Percival,  to  begin  with.  I  must  wait  a  little, 
yet,  to  let  circumstances  guide  me ;  and  I  must  know,  in  eveiy  pos- 
sible way,  what  those  circumstances  are  likely  to  be.  There  is  no 
time  to  lose.  I  have  told  you  already  that  Miss  Halcombe  has  writ- 
ten to  the  lawyer  to-day  for  the  second  time.'"' 

"  How  did  you  find  it  out  ?     What  did  she  say  ?" 

13 


290  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  If  I  told  you,  Pcrcival,  we  should  only  come  back  at  the  end  to 
where  we  are  now.  Enough  that  I  have  found  it  out — and  the  find- 
ing has  caused  that  trou})le  and  anxiety  which  made  me  so  inac- 
cessible to  you  all  through  to-day.  Now,  to  refresh  my  memory 
about  your  affairs — it  is  some  time  since  I  talked  them  over  with 
you.  The  money  has  been  raised,  in  the  absence  of  your  wife's  sig- 
nature, by  means  of  bills  at  three  months  —  raised  at  a  cost  that 
makes  my  poverty-stricken  foreign  hair  stand  on  end  to  think  of  it ! 
When  the  bills  arc  due,  is  there  really  and  truly  no  earthly  way  of 
paying  them  but  by  the  help  of  your  wife  V 

''  None." 

"  What !     You  have  no  money  at  the  banker's  !" 

"  A  few  hundreds,  when  I  want  as  many  thousands." 

"  Have  you  no  other  security  to  borrow  upon  V 

"  Not  a  shred." 

"  What  have  you  actually  got  with  your  wife  at  the  present  mo- 
ment ?" 

"  Nothing  but  the  interest  of  her  twenty  thousand  pounds — bare- 
ly enough  to  pay  our  daily  expenses." 

"  What  do  you  expect  from  your  wife  ?" 

''  Three  thousand  a  year,  when  her  uncle  dies." 

"  A  fine  fortune,  Percival.  What  sort  of  a  man  is  this  uncle  ? 
Old  ?" 

"  No — neither  old  nor  young." 

'■'  A  good-tempered,  freely-living  man  ?  Married  ?  No — I  think 
my  wife  told  me,  not  married." 

''  Of  course  not.  If  he  was  married,  and  had  a  son,  Lady  Glyde 
would  not  be  next  heir  to  the  property.  I'll  tell  you  what  he  is. 
He's  a  maudlin,  twaddling,  selfish  fool,  and  bores  every  body  who 
comes  near  him  about  the  state  of  his  health." 

''  Men  of  that  sort,  Percival,  live  long,  and  marry  malevolently 
when  you  least  expect  it.  I  don't  give  you  much,  my  friend,  for 
your  chance  of  the  three  thousand  a  year.  Is  there  nothing  more 
that  comes  to  you  from  your  wife  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"  Absolutely  nothing  ?" 

"  Absolutely  nothing — except  in  case  of  her  death." 

"  Aha  !  in  the  case  of  her  death." 

There  was  another  pause.  The  Count  moved  from  the  veranda 
to  the  gravel-walk  outside.  I  knew  that  he  had  moved,  by  his 
voice.  ''  The  rain  has  come  at  last,"  I  heard  him  say.  It  had  come. 
The  state  of  my  cloak  showed  that  it  had  been  falling  thickly  for 
some  little  time. 

The  Count  went  back  under  the  veranda — I  heard  the  chair  creak 
beneath  his  weight  as  he  sat  down  in  it  again. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  291 

"Well,  Percival,''  he  said;  "and  in  the  case  of  Lady  Glyde's 
death,  what  do  j'ou  get  then  ?" 

"  If  she  leaves  no  children — " 

"  Which  she  is  likely  to  do  ?" 

"  Which  she  is  not  in  the  least  likely  to  do — " 

"Yes?" 

"  Why,  then  I  get  her  twenty  thousand  pounds." 

"Paid  down?" 

"  Paid  down." 

They  were  silent  once  more.  As  their  voices  ceased,  Madame 
Fosco's  shadow^  darkened  the  blind  again.  Instead  of  passing  this 
time,  it  remained,  for  a  moment,  quite  still.  I  saw  her  fingers  steal 
round  the  corner  of  the  blind,  and  draw  it  on  one  side.  The  dim 
white  outline  of  her  face,  looking  out  straight  over  me,  appeared 
behind  the  window.  I  kept  still,  shrouded  from  head  to  foot  in  my 
black  cloak.  The  rain,  which  was  fast  wetting  me,  dripped  over 
the  glass,  blurred  it,  and  prevented  her  from  seeing  any  thing. 
"  More  rain  I"  I  heard  her  say  to  herself.  She  dropped  the  blind — 
and  I  breathed  again  freely. 

The  talk  went  on  below  me,  the  Count  resuming  it  this  time. 

"Percival !  do  you  care  about  your  wife  ?" 

"  Fosco  I  that's  rather  a  downright  question." 

"  I  am  a  downright  man,  and  I  repeat  it." 

"  Why  the  devil  do  you  look  at  me  in  that  way  ?" 

"You  won't  answer  me?  Well,  then,  let  us  say  your  wife  dies 
before^the  summer  is  out—" 

^rop  it,  Fosco !"' 

"  Let  us  say  your  wife  dies — " 

"  Drop  it,  I  tell  you  !" 

"  In  that  case,  you  would  gain  twenty  thousand  pounds,  and  you 
would  lose — " 

"  I  should  lose  the  chance  of  three  thousand  a  year." 

"The  remote  chance,  Percival — the  remote  chance  only.  And 
you  want  money  at  once.  In  your  position  the  gain  is  certain — the 
loss  doubtful." 

"  Speak  for  yourself  as  well  as  for  me.  Some  of  the  money  I 
want  has  been  borrowed  for  you.  And  if  you  come  to  gain,  my 
wife's  death  would  be  ten  thousand  pounds  in  your  wife's  pocket. 
Shan)  as  you  are,  you  seem  to  have  conveniently  forgotten  Madame 
Fosco's  legacy.  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way !  I  won't  have  it  ! 
What  with  your  looks  and  your  questions,  upon  my  soul,  you  make 
my  flesh  creep  T' 

"  Your  flesh  ?  Does  flesh  mean  conscience  in  English  ?  I  speak 
of  your  wife's  death  as  I  speak  of  a  possibility.  Why  not  ?  The 
respectable  lawyers  who  scribble-scrabble  your  deeds  and  yoiH-  wills 


292  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

look  tlip  (Icatlis  of  living  j^^ople  in  the  face.  Do  lawyers  make 
your  flesh  creep  ?  AVhy  should  I  ?  It  is  my  Inisiness  to-night  to 
clear  up  your  position  beyond  the  possibility  of  mistake — and  I 
hr.ve  now  done  it.  Here  is  your  position,  r^f  your  wife  lives,  you 
pay  those  bills  with  her  signature  to  the  parchment.  If  your  wife 
dies,  you  pay  them  with  her  death,"  ~^ 

As  he  spoke,  the  light  in  Madame  Fosco's  room  was  extinguished, 
and  the  whole  second  floor  of  the  house  was  now  sunk  in  darkness. 

"Talk!  talk  I"  grumbled  Sir  Percival.  "One  would  think,  to 
hear  you,  that  my  wife's  signature  to  the  deed  was  got  already." 

"  You  have  left  the  matter  in  my  hands,"  retorted  the  Count-, 
"  and  I  have  more  than  two  months  before  me  to  turn  round  in. 
Say  no  more  about  it,  if  you  please,  for  the  present.  AVhen  the  bills 
are  due,  you  will  see  for  yourself  if  my  '  talk  !  talk  I'  is  worth  some- 
thing, or  if  it  is  not.  And  now,  Percival,  having  done  with  the 
money-matters  for  to-night,  I  can  place  my  attention  at  your  dis- 
posal, if  you  wish  to  consult  me  on  that  second  difiiculty  which  has 
mixed  itself  up  with  our  little  embarrassments,  and  which  has  so 
altered  you  for  the  worse  that  I  hardly  know  you  again.  Speak, 
my  friend-tjand  pardon  me  if  I  shock  your  fiery  national  tastes  by 
mixing  myself  a  second  glass  of  sugar-and-water." 

"  It's  very  well  to  say  speak,"  replied  Sir  Percival,  in  a  far  more 
quiet  and  more  polite  tone  than  he  had  yet  adopted ;  "  but  it's  not 
so  easy  to  know  how  to  begin." 

"  Shall  I  help  you  ?"  suggested  the  Count.  "  Shall  I  give  this 
private  difficulty  of  yours  a  name  ?  What  if  I  call  it — Anne  Cath- 
erick  ?" 

'*  Look  here,  Fosco,  you  and  I  have  known  each  other  for  a  long 
time ;  and  if  you  have  helped  me  out  of  one  or  two  scrapes  before 
this,  I  have  done  the  best  I  could  to  help  you  in  return,  as  tar  as 
money  would  go.  We  have  made  as  many  friendly  sacrifices,  on 
both  sides,  as  men  could ;  but  we  have  had  our  secrets  from  each 
other,  of  course — haven't  we  ?" 

"  You  have  had  a  secret  from  me^  Percival.  There  is  a  skeleton 
in  your  cupboard  here  at  Blackwater  Park  that  has  peeped  out,  in 
these  last  few  days,  at  other  people  besides  youreelf.'' 

"■  Well,  suppose  it  has.  If  it  doesn't  concern  you,  you  needn't  be 
curious  about  it,  need  you  V 

"Do  I  look  curious  about  it?" 

"  Yes,  you  do," 

"  So  !  so !  my  foce  speaks  the  trath,  then  ?  What  an  immense 
foundation  of  good  there  must  be  in  the  nature  of  a  man  who  ar- 
rives at  my  age,  and  whose  fiice  has  not  yet  lost  the  habit  of  speak- 
ing the  truth  I — Come,  Glyde  !  let  us  be  candid  one  with  the  other. 
This  secret  of  yours  has  sought  me :  I  have  not  sought  it.     Let  us 


THE    WOilAX   IX   AVUITE.  293 

say  I  am  curious — do  you  ask  me,  as  your  old  friend,  to  respect 
your  secret,  and  to  leave  it,  once  for  all,  in  your  own  keeping  ?" 

''Yes — that's  just  what  I  do  ask." 

"  Then  my  curiosity  is  at  an  end.    It  dies  in  me,  from  this  moment." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  V 

"  What  makes  you  doubt  me  V 

"  I  have  had  some  experience,  Fosco,  of  your  roundabout  ways  ; 
and  I  am  not  so  sure  that  you  won't  worm  it  out  of  me  after  all." 

The  chair  below  suddenly  creaked  again — I  felt  the  trellis-work 
pillar  under  me  shake  from  top  to  bottom.  The  Count  had  started 
to  his  feet,  and  had  struck  it  with  his  hand,  i  i  indignation. 

"  Percival  I  Percival  I"  he  cried,  passionately,  "  do  you  know  me 
no  better  than  that  ?  Has  all  your  experience  shown  you  nothing 
of  my  character  yet  ?  I  am  a  man  of  the  antique  type  I  I  am  capa- 
ble of  the  most  exalted  acts  of  virtue — when  I  have  the  chance  of 
performing  them.  It  has  been  the  misfortune  of  my  life  that  I  have 
had  few  chances.  My  conception  of  friendship  is  sublime  I  Is  it 
my  fault  that  your  skeleton  has  peejDed  out  at  me  ?  Why  do  I  con- 
fess my  curiosity  ?  You  poor,  supei-ficial  Englishman,  it  is  to  mag- 
nify my  own  self-control.  I  could  draw  your  secret  oyt  of  you,  if  1 
liked,  as  I  draw  this  finger  out  of  the  palm  of  my  hand — you  know 
I  could  !  But  you  have  appealed  to  my  friendship,  and  the  duties 
of  friendship  are  sacred  to  me.  See  !  I  trample  my  base  curiosity 
under  my  feet.  My  exalted  sentiments  lift  me  above  it.  Recognize 
them,  Percival !  imitate  them,  Percival !  Shake  hands  —  I  forgive 
you." 

His  voice  fiiltered  over  the  last  words — faltered  as  if  he  was  actu- 
ally shedding  tears ! 

Sir  Percival  confusedly  attempted  to  excuse  himself.  But  the 
Count  was  too  magnanimous  to  listen  to  him. 

"  No  I"  he  said.  "  When  my  friend  has  wounded  me,  I  can  par- 
don him  without  apologies.  Tell  me,  in  plain  words,  do  you  want 
my  help  ?" 

"  Yes,  badly  enough." 

"And  you  can  ask  for  it  without  compromising  yourself?" 

"  I  can  try,  at  any  rate." 

"  Try,  then." 

"  Well,  this  is  how  it  stands :  I  told  you  to-day  that  I  had  done 
my  best  to  find  Annie  Catherick,  and  failed." 

"  Yes,  you  did." 

"  Fosco  !  I'm  a  lost  man  if  I  don't  find  her.'^— ' 

"  Ha  !     Is  it  so  serious  as  that  ?*' 

A  little  stream  of  light  traveled  out  under  the  veranda,  and  feU 
over  the  gravel-walk.  The  Count  had  taken  the  lamp  from  the  in- 
ner part  of  the  room,  to  see  his  friend  clearly  by  the  light  of  it. 


294  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Yes !"  he  said.  "  Your  face  speaks  the  truth  this  time.  Seri- 
ous, indeed — as  serious  as  the  money-matters  themselves." 

"  More  serious.     As  true  as  I  sit  liere,  more  serious !" 

The  light  disappeared  again,  and  the  talk  went  on. 

"  I  showed  you  the  letter  to  my  wife  that  Annie  Catherick  hid  in 
the  sand,"  Sir  Percival  continued.  ''  There's  no  boasting  in  that 
letter,  Fosco — she  does  know  the  Secret." 

"  Say  as  little  as  possible,  Percival,  in  my  presence,  of  the  Secret. 
Does  she  know  it  from  you  V 

"  No  ;  from  her  mother." 

''  Two  women  in  possession  of  your  private  mind — bad,  bad,  bad, 
my  friend  I  One  question  here,  before  M-e  go  any  further.  The  mo- 
tive of  your  shutting  up  the  daughter  in  the  asylum  is  now  plain 
enough  to  me — but  the  manner  of  her  escape  is  not  quite  so  clear. 
Do  you  suspect  the  people  in  charge  of  her  of  closing  their  eyes 
purposely,  at  the  instance  of  some  enemy  who  could  afibrd  to  make 
it  worth  their  while  ?" 

'"  No  ;  she  was  the  best-behaved  patient  they  had — and,  like  fools, 
they  trusted  her.  She's  just  mad  enough  to  be  shut  up,  and  just 
sane  enough  to  ruin  me  when  she's  at  large  —  if  you  understand 
that  ?" 

"  I  do  understand  it.  Now,  Percival,  come  at  once  to  the  point ; 
and  then  I  shall  know  what  to  do.  Where  is  the  danger  of  your 
position  at  the  present  moment  ?'' 

"Annie  Catherick  is  in  this  neighborhood,  and  in  communication 
with  Lady  Glyde — there's  the  danger,  plain  enough.  Who  can  read 
the  letter  she  hid  in  the  sand,  and  not  see  that  my  wife  is  in  posses- 
sion of  the  secret,  deny  it  as  she  may  ?'' 

''  One  moment,  Percival.  If  Lady  Glyde  does  know  the  secret, 
she  must  know,  also,  that  it  is  a  compromising  secret  for  you.  As 
your  wife,  surely  it  is  her  interest  to  keep  it  ?'' 

"  Is  it  ?  I'm  coming  to  that.  It  might  be  her  interest  if  she 
cared  two  straws  about  me.  But  I  happen  to  be  an  incumbrance  in 
tlie  way  of  another  man.  She  was  in  love  with  him  before  she  mar- 
ried me — she's  in  love  witli  him  now — an  infernal  vagabond  of  a 
drawing-master,  named  Hartright." 

"  My  dear  friend  I  what  is  there  extraordinary  in  that  ?  They  are 
all  in  love  with  some  other  man.  Who  gets  tlie  first  of  a  woman's 
heart  ?  In  all  my  experience  I  have  never  yet  met  with  the  man 
who  was  Number  One.  Number  Two,  sometimes.  Number  Three, 
Four,  Five,  often.  Number  One,  never !  He  exists,  of  course — but 
1  have  not  met  with  him." 

''Waitl  I  haven't  done  yet.  AVho  do  you  think  helped  Anne 
Catherick  to  get  the  start  when  the  people  from  the  mad-house 
were  after  her  ?     Hartright.     Who  do  you  think  saw  her  again  in 


THE    WOMAX    IN    WHITE.  295 

Cumberland?  Hartright.  Both  times  he  spoke  to  her  alone. 
Stop !  don't  interrupt  me.  The  scoundreFs  as  sweet  on  my  wife 
as  she  is  on  him.  He  knows  the  secret,  and  she  knows  the  secret. 
Once  let  them  both  get  together  again,  and  it's  her  interest  and  his 
interest  to  turn  their  information  against  me." 

''  Gently,  Percival — gently.  Are  you  insensible  to  the  virtue  of 
Lady  Glyde  V 

"■  That  for  the  virtue  of  Lady  Glyde  I  I  believe  in  nothing  about 
her  but  her  money.  Don't  you  see  how  the  case  stands?  She 
might  be  harmless  enough  by  herself;  but  if  she  and  that  vaga- 
bond Hartright — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  see.     Where  is  Mr.  Hartright  ?" 

"  Out  of  the  country.  If  he  means  to  keep  a  whole  skin  on  his 
bones,  I  recommend  him  not  to  come  back  in  a  hurry.'' 

"Are  you  sure  he  is  out  of  the  country  V 

"  Certain.  I  had  him  watched  from  the  time  he  left  Cumberland 
to  the  time  he  sailed.  Oh,  I've  been  careful,  I  can  tell  you  I  Anne 
Catherick  lived  with  some  people  at  a  farm-house  near  Limmeridge. 
I  went  there  myself  after  she  had  given  me  the  slip,  and  made  sure 
that  they  knew  nothing.  I  gave  her  mother  a  form  of  better  to 
w^rite  to  Miss  Halcombe,  exonerating  me  from  any  bad  motive  in 
putting  her  under  restraint.  I've  spent,  I'm  afraid  to  say  how 
much,  in  trying  to  trace  her.  And,  in  spite  of  it  all,  she  turns  up 
here,  and  escapes  me  on  my  own  property !  How  do  I  know  who 
else  may  see  her  here,  who  else  may  speak  to  her  ?  That  prying 
scoundrel,  Hartright,  may  come  back  without  my  knowing  it,  and 
may  make  use  of  her  to-morrow — '' 

"  Not  he,  Percival !  While  I  am  on  the  spot,  and  while  that 
woman  is  in  the  neighborhood,  I  will  answer  for  our  laying  hands 
on  her  before  Mr.  Hartright — even  if  he  does  come  back.  I  see ! 
yes,  yes,  I  see  I  The  finding  of  Anne  Catherick  is  the  first  necessity: 
make  your  mind  easy  about  the  rest.  Your  wife  is  here,  under  your 
thumb ;  Miss  Halcombe  is  inseparable  from  her,  and  is,  therefore, 
under  your  thumb  also ;  and  Mr.  Hartright  is  out  of  the  country. 
This  invisible  Anne  of  yours  is  all  we  have  to  think  of  for  the  pres- 
ent.    You  have  made  your  inquiries  ?'' 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  to  her  mother ;  I  have  ransacked  the  village 
— and  all  to  no  purpose." 

"  Is  her  mother  to  be  depended  on  ?'' 

"  Yes." 

"  She  has  told  your  secret  once." 

"  She  won't  tell  it  again." 

"  Why  not  ?  Are  her  own  interests  concerned  in  keeping  it,  as 
well  as  yours  ?" 

"  Yes — deeply  concerned." 


296  THE    AVOilAX    IN    AVIIITE. 

"  I  am  r^\m\  to  hear  it,  Percival,  for  your  sake.  Don't  l>e  discour- 
aged,  my  I'riend.  Our  moucy-matters,  as  I  told  you,  leave  me  plenty 
of  time  to  turn  round  in ;  and  /  may  search  for  Anne  Catherick  to- 
morrow to  better  purpose  than  you.  One  last  question,  before  we 
go  to  bed." 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"It  is  this.  When  I  went  to  the  boat-house  to  tell  Lady  Glyde 
that  the  little  difficulty  of  her  signature  was  put  off,  accident  took 
me  there  in  time  to  see  a  strange  woman  parting  in  a  veiy  suspicious 
manner  from  your  wife.  But  accident  did  not  bring  me  near  enough 
to  see  this  same  woman's  foce  plainly.  I  must  know  how  to  recog- 
nize our  invisible  Anne.     What  is  she  like  V 

^'  Like  ?  Come  I  I'll  tell  you  in  two  words.  She's  a  sickly  like- 
ness of  my  wife." 

The  chair  creaked,  and  the  pillar  shook  once  more.  The  Count 
was  on  his  feet  again — this  time  in  astonishment. 

"  What  1 1 !"  he  exclaimed,  eagerly. 

"  Fancy  my  wife,  after  a  bad  illness,  with  a  touch  of  something 
wrong  in  her  head — and  there  is  Anne  Catherick  for  you,"  answered 
Sir  Percival. 

''Are  they  related  to  each  other  ?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it." 

"And  yet  so  like?'' 

"  Yes,  so  like.     What  are  you  laughing  alx)ut  ?" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  no  sound  of  any  kind.  The  Count  was 
laughing  in  his  smooth,  silent,  internal  way. 

''  What  are  you  laughing  about  ?''  reiterated  Sir  Percival. 

"  Perhaps  at  my  own  fancies,  my  good  friend.  Allow  me  my 
Italian  humor — do  I  not  come  of  the  illustrious  nation  which  in- 
vented the  exhibition  of  Punch  ?  Well,  well,  well,  I  shall  know 
Anne  Catherick  when  I  see  her — and  so  enough  for  to-night.  Make 
your.mind  easy,  Percival.  Sleep,  my  son,  the  sleep  of  the  just ;  and 
see  what  I  will  do  for  you,  when  daylight  comes  to  help  us  both. 
I  have  my  projects  and  my  plans,  here  in  my  big  head.  You  shall 
pay  those  bills  and  find  Anne  Catherick — my  sacred  word  of  honor 
on  it,  but  you  shall  I  Am  I  a  friend  to  be  treasured  in  the  best  cor- 
ner of  your  heart,  or  am  I  not  ?  Am  I  worth  those  loans  of  money 
which  you  so  delicately  reminded  me  of  a  little  while  since  ?  What- 
ever you  do,  never  wound  me  in  my  sentiments  any  more.  Recog- 
nize them,  Percival  I  imitate  them,  Percival  ?  I  forgive  you  again; 
I  shake  hands  again.     Good-night." 

Not  another  word  was  spoken.  I  heard  the  Count  close  the  li- 
brary door.  I  heard  Sir  Percival  barring  up  the  window-shutters. 
It  had  been  raining,  raining  all  the  time.     I  was  cramped  by  my 


THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE.  ii. 

position,  and  chilled  to  the  bones.  When  I  first  tried  to  m  tve,  i'fie 
efi'ort  was  so  painful  to  me,  that  I  was  obliged  to  desist.  \  tried  a 
second  time,  and  succeeded  in  rising  to  my  knees  on  the  wet  roof. 

As  I  crept  to  the  wall,  and  raised  myself  against  it,  I  looked  l)ack, 
and  saw  the  window  of  the  Count's  dressing-room  gleam  into  light. 
My  sinking  courage  flickered  up  in  me  again,  and  kept  my  eyes 
fixed  on  his  window,  as  I  stole  my  way  back,  step  by  step,  past  the 
wall  of  the  house. 

The  clock  struck  the  quarter  after  one  when  I  laid  my  hands  on 
the  window-sill  of  my  own  room.  I  had  seen  nothing  and  heard 
nothing  which  could  lead  me  to  suppose  that  my  retreads  had  been 
discovered. 

X. 

^  il;  :};.  *  ^  ^  *  -^ 

Jnne  20th.  Eight  o''cloclc. — The  sun  is  shining  in  a  ciear  sky.  I 
have  not  been  near  my  bed  —  I  have  not  once  closed  my  weary, 
wakeful  eyes.  From  the  same  window  at  which  I  looked  out  into 
the  darkness  of  last  night,  I  look  out  now  at  the  bright  stillness  of 
the  morning. 

I  count  the  hours  that  have  passed  since  I  escaped  to  the  shelter 
of  this  room  by  my  own  sensations — and  those  hours  seem  like 
weeks. 

How  short  a  time,  and  yet  how  long  to  me,  since  I  sank  down  in 
the  darkness  here,  on  the  floor,  drenched  to  the  skin,  cramped  in  ev- 
ery limb,  cold  to  the  bones,  a  useless,  helpless,  panic-stricken  creature. 

I  hardly  know  when  I  roused  myself.  I  hardly  knew  when  I 
groped  my  way  back  to  the  bedroom,  and  lighted  the  candle  and 
searched  (with  a  strange  ignorance,  at  first,  of  where  to  look  for 
them)  for  dry  clothes  to  warm  me.  The  doing  of  these  things  is  in 
my  mind,  but  not  the  time  when  they  were  done. 

Can  I  even  remember  when  the  chilled,  cramped  feeling  left  me, 
and  the  throbbing  heat  came  in  its  place  ? 

Surely  it  was  before  the  sun  rose  ?  Yes ;  I  heard  the  clock  strike 
three.  I  remember  the  time  by  the  sudden  brightness  and  clear- 
ness, the  feverish  strain  and  excitement  of  all  my  faculties  which 
came  with  it.  I  remember  my  resolution  to  control  myself,  to  wait 
patiently  hour  after  hour,  till  the  chance  offered  of  removing  Laura 
from  this  horrible  place,  without  the  danger  of  immediate  discovery 
and  pursuit.  I  remember  the  persuasion  settling  itself  in  my  mind 
that  the  words  those  two  men  had  said  to  each  other  would  furnish 
us,  not  only  with  our  justification  for  leaving  the  house,  but  with 
our  weapons  of  defense  against  them  as  well.  I  recall  the  impulse 
that  awakened  in  me  to  preserve  those  words  in  writing,  exactly  as 
they  were  spoken,  while  the  time  was  my  own,  and  while  my  mem- 
ory vividly  retained  them.     All  this  I  remember  plainly :  there  is 

13* 


^  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

no  confusion  in  my  head  yet.  The  coming  in  here  from  tlie  bed- 
loom,  with  my  pen  and  ink  and  paper,  before  sunrise — the  sitting 
down  at  the  widely  opened  window,  to  get  all  tlie  air  I  could  to 
cool  m3 — the  ceaseless  writing,  faster  and  faster,  hotter  and  hotter, 
driving  on  more  and  more  wakefully,  all  through  the  dreadful  in- 
terval before  the  house  was  astir  again — how  clearly  I  recall  it,  from 
the  beginning  by  candle-light,  to  the  end  on  the  j^age  before  this,  in 
the  sunshine  of  the  new  day  I 

Why  do  I  sit  here  still  ?  Why  do  I  weary  my  hot  eyes  and  my 
burning  head  by  writing  more  ?  Why  not  lie  down  and  rest  my- 
self, and  try  to  quench  the  fever  that  consumes  me  in  sleep  ? 

I  dare  not  attempt  it.  A  fear  beyond  all  other  fears  has  got  pos- 
session of  me.  I  am  afraid  of  this  heat  that  parches  my  skin.  I  am 
afraid  of  the  creeping  and  throbbing  that  I  feel  in  my  head.  If  I  lie 
down  now,  how  do  I  know  that  I  may  have  the  sense  and  the  strength 
to  rise  again  ? 

Oh,  the  rain,  the  rain — the  cruel  rain  that  chilled  me  last  night! 
******** 

Mne  o\locl\  —Was  it  nine  struck,  or  eight  ?  Nine,  surely  ?  I  am 
shivering  again — shivering  from  head  to  foot,  in  the  summer  air. 
Have  I  been  sitting  here  asleep  ?  I  don't  know  what  I  have  been 
doing. 

Oh,  my  God  I  am  I  going  to  be  ill  ? 

Ill,  at  such  a  time  as  this ! 

My  iiead — I  am  sadly  afraid  of  my  head.  I  can  write,  but  the 
lines  all  run  together.  I  see  the  words.  Laura — I  can  write  Laura, 
and  see  I  write  it.     Eight  or  nine — which  was  it  ? 

So  cold,  so  cold — oh,  that  rain  last  night  I — and  the  strokes  of  the 
clock,  the  strokes  I  can't  count,  keep  striking  in  my  head — " 
******** 

NOTE. 

[At  this  place  the  entry  in  the  Diary  ceases  to  be  legible.  The 
two  or  three  lines  which  follow  contain  fragments  of  words  only, 
mingled  with  blots  and  scratches  of  the  pen.  The  last  marks  on 
the  paper  bear  some  resemblance  to  the  first  two  letters  (L  and  A) 
of  the  name  of  Lady  Glyde. 

On  the  next  page  of  the  Diary  another  entry  appears.  It  is  in  a 
man's  handwriting,  large,  bold,  and  firmly  regular ;  and  the  date  is 
"June  the  21st."     It  contains  these  lines:] 

POSTSCRIPT   BY   A   SINCERE   FRIEND. 

The  illness  of  our  excellent  Miss  Halcombe  has  aftbrded  me  the 
opportunity  of  enjoying  an  unexpected  intellectual  pleasure. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  299 

I  refer  to  the  perusal  (wliicli  I  have  just  completed)  of  this  inter- 
esting Diary. 

There  are  many  hundred  pages  here.  I  can  lay  my  hand  on  my 
heart,  and  declare  that  every  page  has  charmed,  refreshed,  delight- 
ed me. 

To  a  man  of  my  sentiments,  it  is  unspeakably  gratifying  to  be 
able  to  say  this. 

Admirable  woman ! 

I  allude  to  Miss  Halcombe. 

Stupendous  effort ! 

I  refer  to  the  Diary, 

Yes !  these  pages  are  amazing.  The  tact  which  I  find  here,  the 
discretion,  the  rare  courage,  the  wonderful  power  of  memory,  the  ac- 
curate observation  of  character,  the  easy  grace  of  style,  the  charm- 
ing outbursts  of  womanly  feeling,  have  all  inexpressibly  increased 
my  admiration  of  this  sublime  creature,  of  this  magnificent  Marian. 
The  presentation  of  my  own  character  is  masterly  in  the  extreme. 
I  certify,  with  my  whole  heart,  to  the  fidelity  of  the  portrait.  I  feel 
how  vivid  an  impression  I  must  have  produced  to  have  been  paint- 
ed in  such  strong,  such  rich,  such  massive  colors  as  these.  I  lament 
afresh  the  cruel  necessity  which  sets  our  interests  at  variance,  and 
opposes  us  to  each  other.  Under  happier  circumstances  how  wor- 
thy I  should^mve  been  of  Miss  Halcombe — how  worthy  Miss  Hal- 
combe wouldnave  been  of  me. 

The  sentiments  which  animate  my  heart  assure  me  that  the  lines 
I  have  just  written  express  a  Profound  Truth. 

Those  sentiments  exalt  me  above  all  mereljT  personal  considera- 
tions. I  bear  witness,  in  the  most  disinterested  manner,  to  the  ex- 
cellence of  the  stratagem  by  which  this  unparalleled  woman  sur- 
prised the  private  interview  between  Percival  and  myself  Also  to 
the  marvelous  accuracy  of  her  report  of  the  whole  conversation,  from 
its  beginning  to  its  end. 

Those  sentiments  have  induced  me  to  offer  to  the  unimpression- 
able doctor  who  attends  on  her  my  vast  knowledge  of  chemistry, 
and  my  luminous  experience  of  the  more  subtle  resources  which 
medical  and  magnetic  science  have  placed  at  the  disposal  of  man- 
kind. He  has  hitherto  declined  to  avail  himself  of  my  assistance. 
;  Miserable  man ! 

Finally,  those  sentiments  dictate  the  lines — grateful,  sympathic, 
paternal  lines — which  appear  in  this  place,  I  close  the  b^ok.  My 
strict  sense  of  propriety  restores  it  (by  the  hands  of  my  wife)  to  its 
place  on  the  writer's  table.  Events  are  hurrying  me  away.  Cir- 
cumstances are  guiding  me  to  serious  issues.  Vast  perspectives  of 
success  unroll  themselves  before  my  eyes.  I  accomplish  my  destiny 
with  a  calmness  which  is  terrible  to  myself     Nothing  but  the  horn- 


jOO  the  woman  in  white. 

ago  of  my  admiration  is  my  own.  I  deposit  it,  with  respectful  ten- 
Jc'rncss,  at  tlie  feet  of  Miss  Halcombe. 

I  breatlic  my  wishes  for  her  recovery, 

I  condole  with  her  on  the  inevitable  faihire  of  every  plan  that 
she  has  formed  for  her  sister's  benefit.  At  tlie  same  time  I  entreat 
licr  to  believe  that  the  information  which  I  have  derived  from  her 
diary  will  in  no  respect  help  me  to  contribute  to  that  failure.  It 
simply  confirms  tlie  plan  of  conduct  which  I  had  previously  ar- 
ranged. I  have  to  thank  these  pages  for  awakening  the  finest  sen- 
sibilities in  my  nature — nothing  more. 

To  a  person  of  similar  sensibility  this  simple  assertion  will  ex- 
plain and  excuse  every  thing. 

Miss  Halcombe  is  a  person  of  similar  sensibility. 

In  that  persuasion,  I  sign  myself,  Fosco. 


Tlie  hitory  cont'umed  hy  Fkedeiiick  Faiklie,  Esq.,  of  Lim- 
meridge  House* 

It  is  the  grand  misfortune  of  my  life  lliat  nobody  will  let  me 
tilone. 

Why — I  ask  every  l)ody — why  worry  me  ?  Nobodxuinswers  that 
question,  and  nobody  lets  me  alone.  Relatives,  friends,  and  stran- 
gers, all  combine  to  annoy  me.  What  have  I  done  ?  I  ask  myself, 
I  ask  my  servant,  Louis,  fifty  times  a  day — what  have  I  done  ?  Nei- 
tlicr  of  us  can  tell.     Most  extraordinary  ! 

The  last  annoyance  that  has  assailed  me  is  the  annoyance  of  be- 
ing called  upon  to  write  this  Narrative.  Is  a  man  in  my  state  of 
nervous  wretchedness  capable  of  writing  Narratives  ?  When  I  put 
this  extremely  reasonable  objection,  I  am  told  that  certain  very  se- 
rious events,  relating  to  my  niece,  have  happened  within  my  ex- 
perience, and  that  I  am  the  fit  person  to  describe  them  on  that 
account.  I  am  threatened,  if  I  fail  to  exert  myself  in  the  manner 
required,  with  consequences  Avhich  I  can  not  so  much  as  think  of 
without  perfect  prostration.  There  is  really  no  need  to  threaten 
me.  Shattered  by  my  miserable  health  and  my  family  troubles,  I 
am  incapable  of  resistance.  If  you  insist,  you  take  your  unjust  ad- 
vantage of  me,  and  I  give  way  immediately.  I  will  endeavor  to 
remember  v.liat  I  can  (under  protest),  and  to  write  what  I  can  (also 
under  protesl; ;  and  what  I  can't  remember  and  can't  write,  Louis 
must  remember,  and  write  for  me.     He  is  an  ass  and  I  am  an  in- 

•  The  manner  in  which  Mr.  Fairlie's  Narrative,  and  other  Narratives  that  arc 
shortly  to  follow  it,  were  originally  obtained,  forms  the  subject  of  an  explanation 
which  will  appca'-  at  u  later  period. 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  301 

valid,  and  we  are  likely  to  Diake  all  sorts  of  mistakes  between  us. 
•  How  humiliating ! 

I  am  told  to  remember  dates.  Good  heavens !  I  npver  did  such 
a  thing  in  my  life — how  am  I  to  begin  now  ? 

I  have  asked  Louis.  He  is  not  quite  such  an  ass  as  I  have  hith- 
erto sui^posed.  He  remembers  the  date  of  the  event,  within  a  week 
or  two — and  I  remember  the  name  of  the  person.  The  date  was 
toward  the  end  of  June,  or  the  beginning  of  July,  and  the  name  (in 
my  opinion  a  remarkably  vulgar  one)  was  Fanny. 

At  the  end  of  June,  or  the  beginning  of  July,  then,  I  was  reclin- 
ing, in  my  customary  state,  surrounded  by  the  various  objects  of 
Art  which  I  have  collected  about  me  to  improve  the  taste  of  the 
barbarous  people  in  my  neighborhood.  That  is  to  say,  I  had  the 
photographs  of  my  pictures,  and  prints,  and  coins,  and  so  forth,  all 
about  me,  which  I- intend,  one  of  these  days,  to  present  (the  photo- 
graphs, I  mean,  if  the  clumsy  English  language  will  let  me  mean 
any  thing) — to  present  to  the  Institution  at  Carlisle  (horrid  place  !), 
with  a  view  to  improving  the  tastes  of  the  Members  (Goths  and 
Vandals  to  a  man).  It  might  be  supposed  that  a  gentleman  who 
was  in  course  of  conferring  a  great  national  benefit  on  his  country- 
men was  the  last  gentleman  in  the  world  to  be  unfeelingly  worried 
about  private  difficulties  and  family  aflairs.  Quite  a  mistake,  I  as- 
sure you,  in  my  case. 

However,  there  I  was,  reclining,  with  my  art-treasures  about  mc, 
and  wanting  a  quiet  morning.  Because  I  wanted  a  quiet  morning, 
of  course  Louis  came  in.  It  was  perfectly  natural  that  I  should  in- 
quire what  the  deuce  he  meant  by  making  his  appearance,  when  I 
had  not  rung  my  bell.  I  seldom  swear — it  is  such  an  ungentleman- 
like  habit — but  when  Louis  answered  by  a  grin,  I  think  it  was  also 
perfectly  natural  that  I  should  damn  him  for  grinning.  At  any 
rate,  I  did. 

This  rigorous  mode  of  treatment,  I  have  observed,  invariably 
brings  persons  in  the  lower  class  of  life  to  their  senses.  It  brought 
Louis  to  Jus  senses.  He  was  so  obliging  as  to  leave  ofi"  grinning, 
and  inform  me  that  a  Young  Person  was  outside  wanting  to  see  me. 
He  added  (with  the  odious  talkativeness  of  servants;  that  her  name 
was  Fanny. 

"  Who  is  Fanny  ?'' 

"Lady  Glyde's  maid,  sir." 

"  What  does  Lady  Glyde's  maid  want  with  me .?" 

"  A  letter,  sir — " 

"  Take  it." 

"  She  refuses  to  give  it  to  any  body  but  you,  sir." 

"  Who  sends  the  letter  ?" 

"  Miss  Halcombe,  sir." 


302  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

The  moment  I  heard  Miss  Halcombe's  name,  I  gave  up.  It  is  a 
h'lbit  of  mine  always  to  give  up  to  Miss  Halcombe.  I  find,  by  ex- 
])cricncc,  that  it  saves  noise.  I  gave  up  on  this  occasion.  Dear 
Marian  I 

"  Let  Lady  Glyde's  maid  come  in,  Louis.  Stop !  Do  her  shoes 
creak  V 

I  was  obliged  to  ask  the  question.  Creaking  shoes  invariably 
upset  me  for  the  day.  I  was  resigned  to  see  the  Young  Person,  but 
I  was  }iot  resigned  to  let  the  Young  Person's  shoes  upset  me.  There 
is  a  limit  even  to  my  endurance. 

Louis  affirmed  distinctly  that  her  shoes  were  to  be  depended 
upon.  I  waved  my  hand.  He  introduced  her.  Is  it  necessary  to 
say  that  she  expressed  her  sense  of  embarrassment  by  shutting  up 
her  mouth  and  breathing  through  her  nose  ?  To  the  student  of  fe- 
male human  nature  in  the  lower  orders,  surely  not. 

Let  me  do  the  girl  justice.  Her  shoes  did  not  creak.  But  why 
do  Young  Persons  in  service  all  perspire  at  the  hands  ?  Why  have 
they  all  got  fat  noses  and  hard  cheeks  ?  And  why  are  their  faces 
so  sadly  unfinished,  especially  about  the  corners  of  the  eyelids  ?  I 
am  not  strong  enough  to  think  deeply  myself  on  any  subject ;  but 
I  appeal  to  professional  men  who  are.  Why  have  we  no  variety  in 
our  breed  of  Young  Persons  ? 

"  You  have  a  letter  for  me  from  Miss  Halcombe  ?  Put  it  down 
on  the  table,  please,  and  don't  upset  any  thing.  How  is  Miss  Hal- 
combe ?" 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,  sir." 

"And  Lady  Glyde?" 

I  received  no  answer.  The  Young  Person's  face  became  more 
unfinished  than  ever,  and  I  think  she  began  to  cry.  I  certainly 
saw  something  moist  about  her  eyes.  Tears  or  perspiration  ?  Louis 
(whom  I  have  just  consulted)  is  inclined  to  think,  tears.  He  is  in 
her  class  of  life,  and  he  ought  to  know  best.     Let  us  say,  tears. 

Except  when  the  refining  process  of  Art  judiciously  removes  from 
them  all  resemblance  to  Nature,  I  distinctly  object  to  tears.  Tears 
are  scientifically  described  as  a  Secretion.  I  can  understand  that  a 
secretion  may  be  healthy  or  unhealthy,  but  I  can  not  see  the  interest 
of  a  secretion  from  a  sentimental  point  of  view^.  Perhaps  my  own 
secretions  being  all  wrong  together,  I  am  a  little  prejudiced  on  the 
subject.  No  matter.  I  behaved,  on  this  occasion,  with  all  possible 
propriety  and  feeling.     I  closed  my  eyes,  and  said  to  Louis, 

"  Endeavor  to  ascertain  what  she  means," 

Louis  endeavored,  and  the  Young  Person  endeavored.  They  suc- 
ceeded in  confusing  each  other  to  such  an  extent  that  I  am  bound 
in  common  gratitude  to  say,  they  really  amused  me.  I  think  I  shall 
send  for  them  again,  when  I  am  in  low  spirits,     I  have  just  men- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  303 

tioned  this  idea  to  Louis.  Strange  to  say,  it  seems  to  make  him  un- 
comfortable.    Poor  devil ! 

Surely,  I  am  not  expected  to  repeat  my  niece's  maid's  explanation 
of  her  tears,  interpreted  in  the  English  of  my  Swiss  valet  ?  The 
tning  is  manifestly  impossible.  I  can  give  my  o^ti  impressions  and 
leelings,  perhaps.     Will  that  do  as  well  ?     Please  say,  Yes. 

My  idea  is  that  she  began  by  telling  me  (through  Louis)  that 
her  master  had  dismissed  her  from  her  mistress's  service.  (Observe, 
throughout,  the  strange  irrelevancy  of  the  Young  Person.  Was  it 
my  fault  that  she  had  lost  her  place  ?)  On  her  dismissal,  she  had 
gone  to  the  inn  to  sleep.  (/  don't  keep  the  inn — why  mention  it  to 
me?)  Between  six  o'clock  and  seven.  Miss  Halcombe  had  come  to 
say  good-bye,  and  had  given  her  two  letters,  one  for  me,  and  one  for 
a  gentleman  in  London.  (I  am  not  a  gentleman  in  London — hang 
the  gentleman  in  London  1)  She  had  carefully  put  the  two  letters 
into  her  bosom  (what  have  I  to  do  with  her  bosom  ?) ;  she  had  been 
very  unhappy,  when  Miss  Halcombe  had  gone  away  again ;  she  had 
not  had  the  heart  to  put  bit  or  drop  between  her  lips  till  it  was 
near  bed-time  ;  and  then,  when  it  was  close  on  nine  o'clock,  she  had 
thought  she  should  like  a  cup  of  tea.  (Am  I  responsible  for  any  of 
these  vulgar  fluctuations,  which  begin  with  unhappiness  and  end 
with  tea  ?)  Just  as  she  w^as  warming  the  pot  (I  give  the  words  on 
the  authority  of  Louis,  who  says  he  knows  what  they  mean,  and 
wishes  to  explain,  but  I  snub  him  on  principle)— just  as  she  w^as 
warming  the  pot,  the  door  opened,  and  she  was  struck  of  a  heap 
(her  own  words  again,  and  perfectly  unintelligible,  this  time,  to 
Louis,  as  well  as  to  myself)  by  the  appearance,  in  the  inn  parlor,  of 
her  ladyship,  the  Countess.  I  give  my  niece's  maid's  description  of 
my  sister's  title  with  a  sense  of  the  highest  relish.  My  poor  dear 
sister  is  a  tiresome  woman  who  married  a  foreigner.  To  resume  : 
the  door  opened ;  her  ladyship,  the  Countess,  appeared  in  the  par- 
lor, and  the  Young  Person  was  struck  of  a  heap.     Most  remarkable  ! 

I  must  really  rest  a  little  before  I  can  get  on  any  further.  When 
I  have  reclined  for  a  few  minutes,  with  my  eyes  closed,  and  when 
Louis  has  refreshed  my  poor  aching  temples  with  a  little  eau-de-Co- 
logne, I  may  be  able  to  proceed. 

Her  ladyship,  the  Countess — 

No.  I  am  able  to  proceed,  but  not  to  sit  up.  I  will  recline,  and 
dictate.  Louis  has  a  horrid  accent;  but  he  knows  the  language, 
and  can  write.     How  very  convenient ! 

Her  ladyship,  the  Countess,  explained  her  unexpected  appearance 
at  the  inn  by  telling  Fanny  that  she  had  come  to  bring  one  or  two 
little  messages  which  Miss  Halcombe,  in  her  hurry,  had  forgotten. 


304  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

The  Young  Person  tliereupon  waited  anxiously  to  hear  what  the 
messages  were ;  but  the  Countess  seemed  disinclined  to  mention 
them  (so  like  my  sister's  tiresome  way !)  until  Fanny  had  had  her 
tea.  Her  ladyship  was  surprisingly  kind  and  thoughtful  about  it 
(extremely  unlike  my  sister),  and  said, ''  I  am  sure,  my  poor  girl,  you 
must  want  your  tea.  We  can  let  the  messages  wait  till  afterward. 
Come,  come,  if  nothing  else  will  put  you  at  your  ease,  I'll  make  the 
tea,  and  have  a  cup  with  you."  I  think  those  were  the  words,  as 
reported  excitably,  in  my  presence,  by  the  Young  Person.  At  any 
r  ite,  the  Countess  insisted  on  making  the  tea,  and  carried  her  ridic- 
ulous ostentation  of  humility  so  far  as  to  take  one  cup  herself,  and 
to  insist  on  the  girl's  taking  the  other.  The  girl  drank  the  tea, 
and,  according  to  her  own  account,  solemnized  the  extraordinary 
occasion,  five  minutes  afterward,  by  fainting  dead  away,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life.  Here,  again,  I  use  her  own  words.  Louis  thinks 
they  were  accompanied  by  an  increased  secretion  of  tears.  I  can't 
say,  myself.  The  effort  of  listening  being  quite  as  much  as  I  could 
manage,  my  eyes  were  closed. 

Where  did  I  leave  oflF  ?  Ah,  yes — she  fainted,  afl:er  drinking  a  cup 
of  tea  with  the  Countess :  a  proceeding  which  might  have  interested 
me,  if  I  had  been  her  medical  man  ;  but,  being  nothing  of  the  sort, 
I  felt  bored  by  hearing  of  it,  nothing  more.  When  she  came  to  her- 
self, in  half  an  hour's  time,  she  was  on  the  sofa,  and  nobody  was  with 
her  but  the  landlady.  The  Countess,  finding  it  too  late  to  remain 
any  longer  at  the  inn,  had  gone  away  as  soon  as  the  girl  showed 
signs  of  recovering,  and  the  landlady  had  been  good  enough  to  help 
her  up  stairs  to  bed. 

Left  by  herself,  she  had  felt  in  her  bosom  (I  regret  the  necessity 
of  referring  to  this  part  of  tlie  subject  a  second  time),  and  had  found 
the  two  letters  there,  quite  safe,  but  strangely  crumpled.  She  had 
been  giddy  in  the  night ;  but  had  got  up  well  enough  to  travel  in 
the  morning.  She  had  put  the  letter  addressed  to  that  obtrusive 
stranger,  the  gentleman  in  London,  into  the  post,  and  had  now  de- 
livered the  other  letter  into  my  hands,  as  she  was  told.  This  was 
the  plain  tnith  ;  and,  though  she  could  not  blame  herself  for  any  in> 
tentional  neglect,  she  was  sadly  troubled  in  her  mind,  and  sadly  in 
want  of  a  word  of  advice.  At  this  point  Louis  thinks  the  secretions 
appeared  again.  Perhaps  they  did ;  but  it  is  of  infinitely  greater 
importance  to  mention  that,  at  this  point  also,  I  lost  my  patience, 
opened  my  eyes,  and  interfered. 

"  What  is  the  purport  of  all  this  ?''  I  inquired. 

My  niece's  irrelevant  maid  stared,  and  stood  speechless. 

" Endeavor  to  explain,"  I  said  to  my  senant.  "  Translate  me, 
Louis." 

Louis  endeavored,  and  translated.     In  other  words,  he  descended 


THE    ^VOMAX    IX    WHITE.  305 

immediately  iuto  a  bottomless  pit  of  confusion ;  and  the  Young  Per- 
son followed  him  down.  I  reallj-  don't  know  when  I  have  been  so 
amused.  I  left  them  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit,  as  long  as  they  divert- 
ed me.  When  they  ceased  to  divert  me,  I  exerted  my  intelligence, 
and  pulled  them  up  again. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  my  interference  enabled  me,  in  due 
course  of  time,  to  ascertain  the  purport  of  the  Young  Person's  re- 
marks. 

I  discovered  that  she  was  uneasy  in  her  mind,  because  the  train 
of  events  that  she  had  just  described  to  me  had  prevented  her  from 
receiving  those  supplementary  messages  which  Miss  Halcombe  had 
intrusted  to  the  Countess  to  deliver.  She  was  afraid  the  messages 
might  have  been  of  great  importance  to  her  mistress's  interests. 
Her  dread  of  Sir  Percival  had  deterred  her  from  going  to  Black- 
water  Park  late  at  night  to  inquire  about  them,  and  Miss  Halcombe's 
own  directions  to  her,  on  no  account  to  miss  the  train  in  the  morn- 
ing, had  prevented  her  from  waiting  at  the  inn  the  next  day.  She 
was  most  anxious  that  the  misfortune  of  her  fainting-fit  should  not 
lead  to  the  second  misfortune  of  making  her  mistress  think  her  neg- 
lectful, and  she  would  humbly  beg  to  ask  me  whether  I  would  ad 
vise  her  to  write  her  explanations  and  excuses  to  Miss  Halcombe,  re- 
questing to  receive  the  messages  by  letter,  if  it  was  not  too  late.  I 
make  no  apologies  for  this  extremely  prosy  paragraph.  I  have  been 
ordered  to  Avrite  it.  There  are  people,  unaccountable  as  it  may 
appear,  who  actually  take  more  interest  in  what  my  niece's  maid 
said  to  me  on  this  occasion  than  in  what  I  said  to  my  niece's  maid. 
Amusing  perversity ! 

"  I  should  feel  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,  if  you  would  kindly 
tell  me  what  I  had  better  do,"  remarked  the  Young  Person. 

"  Let  things  stop  as  they  are,"  I  said,  adapting  my  language  to 
my  listener.  '*/  invariably  let  things  stop  as  they  are.  Yes.  Is 
that  all  ?" 

"  If  you  think  it  would  be  a  liberty  in  me,  sir,  to  write,  of  course 
I  wouldn't  venture  to  do  so.  But  I  am  so  very  anxious  to  do  all  I 
can  to  serve  my  mistress  faithfully — " 

People  in  the  lower  class  of  life  never  know  when  or  how  to  go 
out  of  a  room.  They  invariably  require  to  be  helped  out  by  their 
betters.  I  thought  it  high  time  to  help  the  Young  Person  out.  I 
did  it  with  two  judicious  words  : 

"  Good-morning  I" 

Something,  outside  or  inside  this  singular  girl,  suddenly  creak- 
ed. Louis,  who  was  looking  at  her  (which  I  was  not),  says  she 
creaked  when  she  courtesied.  Curious.  Was  it  her  shoes,  her 
stays,  or  her  bones  ?  Louis  thinks  it  was  her  stays.  Most  extraor- 
dinary ! 


306  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

As  soon  as  I  was  left  by  myself,  I  had  a  little  nap — I  really  want- 
ed it.  "When  I  awoke  again,  I  noticed  dear  Marian's  letter.  If  I 
had  had  the  least  idea  of  what  it  contained,  I  should  certainly  not 
have  attempted  to  open  it.  Being,  unfortunately  for  myself,  quite 
innocent  of  all  suspicion,  I  read  the  letter.  It  immediately  upset 
me  for  the  day. 

I  am  by  nature  one  of  the  most  easy -tempered  creatures  that  ever 
§ved — I  make  allowances  for  every  body,  and  I  take  offense  at  noth- 
ing. But,  as  I  have  before  remarked,  there  are  limits  to  my  endur- 
ance. I  laid  down  Marian's  letter,  and  felt  myself— justly  felt  my- 
self— an  injui^ed  man. 

I  am  about  to  make  a  remark.  It  is,  of  course,  applicable  to  the 
very  serious  matter  now  under  notice,  or  I  should  not  allow  it  to  ap- 
pear in  this  place. 

Nothing,  in  my  opinion,  sets  the  odious  selfishness  of  mankind  in 
such  a  repulsively  vivid  light  as  the  treatment,  in  all  classes  of  so- 
ciety, which  the  Single  people  receive  at  the  hands  of  the  Married 
people.  When  you  have  once  shown  yourself  too  considerate  and 
self-denying  to  add  a  family  of  your  own  to  an  already  overcrowded 
population,  you  are  vindictively  marked  out  by  your  married  friends, 
who  have  no  similar  consideration  and  no  similar  self-denial,  as  the 
recipient  of  half  their  conjugal  troubles,  and  the  born  friend  of  all 
their  children.  Husbands  and  wives  talk  of  the  cares  of  matrimony, 
and  bachelors  and  spinsters  Ijear  them.  Take  my  own  case.  I  con- 
siderately remain  single,  and  my  poor  dear  brother,  Philip,  inconsid- 
erately marries.  What  does  he  do  when  he  dies  ?  He  leaves  his 
daughter  to  me.  She  is  a  sweet  girl.  She  is  also  a  dreadful  respon- 
sibility. Why  lay  her  on  my  shoulders  ?  Because  I  am  bound,  in 
the  harmless  character  of  a  single  man,  to  relieve  my  married  con- 
nections of  all  their  own  troubles.  I  do  my  best  with  my  brother's 
responsiljility ;  I  marry  my  niece,  with  infinite  fuss  and  difficulty,  to 
the  man  her  father  wanted  her  to  marry.  She  and  her  husband  dis- 
agree, and  unpleasant  consequences  follow.  What  does  she  do  with 
those  consequences  ?  She  transfers  them  to  me.  Why  transfer  them 
to  Tne?  Because  I  am  bound,  in  the  harmless  character  of  a  single 
man,  to  relieve  my  married  connections  of  all  their  own  troubles. 
Poor  single  people  !     Poor  human  nature  ! 

It  is  quite  unnecessary  to  say  that  Marian's  letter  threatened  me. 
Every  Ijody  threatens  me.  All  sorts  of  horrors  were  to  fall  on  my 
devoted  head,  if  I  hesitated  to  turn  Limmerldge  House  into  an  asy- 
lum for  my  niece  and  her  misfortunes.     I  did  hesitate,  nevertheless. 

I  have  mentioned  that  my  usual  course,  hitherto,  had  been  to  sub- 
mit to  dear  Marian,  and  save  noise.  But,  on  this  occasion,  the  con- 
sequences involved  in  her  extremely  inconsiderate  proi:)osal  were  of 
a  nature  to  make  me  pause.     If  I  opened  Limmeridge  House  as  an 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  307 

asylum  to  Lady  Glyde,  what  security  had  I  accainst  Sir  Percival 
Glyde's  following  her  here,  in  a  state  of  violent  resentment  against 
me  for  harboring  his  wife  ?  I  saw  such  a  perfect  labyrinth  of  trou- 
bles involved  in  this  proceeding,  that  I  determined  to  feel  my 
ground,  as  it  were.  I  wrote,  therefore,  to  dear  Marian,  to  beg  (as 
she  had  no  husband  to  lay  claim  to  her)  that  she  would  come  here 
by  herself,  first,  and  talk  the  matter  over  with  me.  If  she  could  an- 
swer my  objections  to  my  own  perfect  satisfaction,  then  I  assured 
her  that  I  would  receive  our  sweet  Laura  with  the  greatest  pleasure 
-—but  not  otherwise. 

I  felt  of  course,  at  the  time,  that  this  temporizing  on  my  part 
would  probably  end  in  bringing  Marian  here  in  a  state  of  virtuous 
indignation,  banging  doors.  But,  then,  the  other  course  of  proceed- 
ing might  end  in  bringing  Sir  Percival  here  in  a  state  of  ^^ltuous 
indignation,  banging  doors  also ;  and,  of  the  two  indignations  and 
bangings,  I  preferred  Marian's — because  I  was  used  to  her.  Accord- 
ingly, I  dispatched  the  letter  by  return  of  post.  It  gained  me  time, 
at  all  events  —  and,  oh  dear  me  I  what  a  point  that  was  to  begin 
with. 

AVhen  I  am  totally  prostrated  (did  I  mention  that  I  was  totally 
prostrated  by  Marian's  letter  ?),  it  always  takes  me  three  days  to  get 
up  again.  I  was  very  unreasonable — I  expected  three  days  of  quiet. 
Of  course  I  didn't  get  them. 

The  third  day's  post  brought  me  a  most  impertinent  letter  from  a 
person  with  whom  I  was  totally  unacquainted.  He  described  him- 
self as  the  acting  partner  of  our  man-of-business  —  our  dear,  pig- 
headed old  Gilmore — and  he  informed  me  that  he  had  lately  re- 
ceived, by  the  post,  a  letter  addressed  to  him  in  Miss  Halcombe's 
handwriting.  On  opening  the  envelope  he  had  discovered,  to  his 
astonishment,  that  it  contained  nothing  but  a  blank  sheet  of  note- 
paper.  This  circumstance  appeared  to  him  so  suspicious  (as  sug- 
gesting to  his  restless  legal  mind  that  the  letter  had  been  tampered 
with)  that  he  had  at  once  written  to  Miss  Halcombe,  and  had  re- 
ceived no  answer  by  return  of  post.  In  this  difficulty,  instead  of 
acting  like  a  sensible  man  and  letting  things  take  their  proper 
course,  his  next  absurd  proceeding,  on  his  own  showing,  was  to  pes- 
ter me^  by  writing  to  inquire  if  I  knew  any  thing  about  it.  What 
the  deuce  should  I  know  about  it  ?  "Why  alarm  me  as  well  as  him- 
self? I  wrote  back  to  that  effect.  It  was  one  of  my  keenest  letters. 
I  have  produced  nothing  with  a  sharper  epistolary  edge  to  it.  since 
I  tendered  his  dismissal  in  writing  to  that  extremely  troublesome 
person,  Mr.  Walter  Hartright. 

My  letter  produced  its  effect.  I  heard  nothing  more  from  the 
lawyer. 

This,  perhaps,  was  not  altogether  surprising.     But  it  was  certain- 


308  THE    AVOMAX   IN   WHITE. 

ly  a  rcniurkaljlo  circumstance  that  no  second  letter  reached  me  from 
Marian,  and  that  no  warning  si<j^ns  appeared  of  her  arrival.  Her 
unexpected  absence  did  me  amazing  good.  It  was  so  very  sooth- 
ing and  j)leasant  to  infer  (as  I  did,  of  course)  tliat  my  married  con- 
nections liad  made  it  up  again.  Five  days  of  undisturbed  tranquil- 
lity, of  delicious  single  blessedness,  quite  restored  me.  On  the  sixth 
day  I  felt  strong  enough  to  send  for  my  photographer,  and  to  set 
him  at  work  again  on  the  presentation  copies  of  my  art-treasures, 
with  a  view,  as  I  have  already  mentioned,  to  the  improvement  of 
taste  in  this  barljarous  neighl>orhood.  I  had  just  dismissed  him  to 
his  workshop,  and  had  just  begun  coquetting  with  my  coins,  when 
Louis  suddenly  made  his  appearance  with  a  card  in  his  hand. 

"Another  Young  Person?"  I  said.  "I  won't  see  her.  In  my 
state  of  health,  Young  Persons  disagree  with  me.     Not  at  home." 

"  It  is  a  gentleman  this  time,  sir." 

A  gentleman,  of  course,  made  a  difference.     I  looked  at  the  card. 

Gracious  Heaven  I  my  tiresome  sister's  foreign  husband.  Count 
Fosco. 

Is  it  necessary  to  say  what  my  first  impression  was,  when  I  looked 
at  my  visitor's  card  ?  Surely  not  ?  My  sister  having  mamed  a  for- 
eigner, there  was  but  one  impression  that  any  man  in  his  senses 
could  possibly  feel.  Of  course  the  Count  had  come  to  borrow  mon- 
ey of  me. 

"Louis,"  I  said,  "do  you  think  he  would  go  away  if  you  gave 
him  five  shillings  ?" 

Louis  looked  quite  shocked.  He  sur}:>rised  me  inexpressibly  by 
declaring  that  my  sister's  foreign  husband  was  dressed  superbly, 
and  looked  the  picture  of  prosperity.  Under  these  circumstances, 
my  first  impression  altered  to  a  certain  extent.  I  now  took  it  for 
granted  that  the  Count  had  matrimonial  difficulties  of  his  own  to 
contend  with,  and  that  he  had  come,  like  the  rest  of  the  family,  to 
cast  them  all  on  my  shoulders. 

"  Did  he  mention  his  business  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Count  Fosco  said  he  had  come  here,  sir,  because  Miss  Halcoml)e 
Vv-as  unable  to  leave  Blackwater  Park." 

Fresh  troubles,  apparently.  Not  exactly  his  own,  as  I  had  sup- 
posed, but  dear  IMarian's.     Troul^les,  any  way.     Oh  dear ! 

"  Show  him  in,"  I  said,  resignedly. 

The  Count's  first  appearance  really  startled  me.  He  was  such  an 
alarmingly  large  person  that  I  quite  trembled.  I  felt  certain  that 
he  would  shake  the  floor,  and  knock  down  my  art-treasures.  He 
did  neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  He  was  refreshingly  dressed  in 
summer  costume ;  his  manner  was  delightfully  self-possessed  and 
quiet — lie  had  a  channing  smile.     My  first  impression  of  him  was 


THE    WOMAX   IX    WHITE.  309 

highly  favorable.  It  is  not  creditable  to  my  penetration — as  the 
sequel  will  show — to  acknowledge  this ;  but  I  am  a  naturally  can- 
did man,  and  I  do  acknowledge  it,  notwithstanding, 

"Allow  me  to  present  myself,  Mr.  Fairlie,"  he  said.  "I  come 
from  Blackwater  Park,  and  I  have  the  honor  and  the  happiness  of 
being  Madame  Fosco's  Iiusband.  Let  me  take  my  first,  and  last, 
advantage  of  that  circumstance  by  entreating  you  not  to  make  a 
stranger  of  me.  I  beg  you  will  not  disturb  yourself— I  beg  you  will 
not  move." 

''  You  are  very  good,''  I  replied.  '*  I  wish  I  was  strong  enough 
to  get  up.  Charmed  to  see  you  at  Limmeridge.  Please  take  a 
chair.'" 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  suffering  to-day,"  said  the  Count. 

"As  usual,"  I  said.  ''  1  am  nothing  but  a  bundle  of  nerves  dress- 
ed up  to  look  like  a  man." 

"  I  have  studied  many  subjects  in  my  time,"  remarked  this  sym- 
pathetic person.  "Among  others,  the  inexhaustible  subject  of 
nerves.  May  I  make  a  suggestion,  at  once  the  simplest  and  the 
most  profound  ?     Will  you  let  me  alter  the  light  in  your  room  ?" 

"  Certainly — if  you  will  be  so  very  kind  as  not  to  let  any  of  it  in 
on  me." 

He  walked  to  the  window.  Such  a  contrast  to  dear  Marian  I  so 
extremely  considerate  in  all  his  movements  I 

"  Light,"  he  said,  in  that  delightfully  confidential  tone  which  is 
so  soothing  to  an  invalid,  "  is  the  first  essential.  Light  stimulates, 
nourishes,  preserves.  You  can  no  more  do  without  it,  Mr.  Fairlie, 
tlian  if  you  were  a  flower.  Observe.  Here,  where  you  sit,  I  close 
the  shutters,  to  compose  you.  There,  where  you  do  not  sit,  I  draw 
up  the  blind  and  let  in  the  invigorating  sun.  Admit  the  light  into 
your  room,  if  you  can  not  bear  it  on  yourself  Light,  sir,  is  the 
grand  decree  of  Providence.  You  accept  Providence  with  your 
own  restrictions.     Accept  light — on  the  same  terms." 

I  thought  this  very  convincing  and  attentive.  He  had  taken  me 
in — up  to  that  point  about  the  light,  he  had  certainly  taken  me  in. 

"  You  see  me  confused,"  he  said,  returning  to  his  place — "  on  my 
word  of  honor,  Mr.  Fairlie,  you  see  me  confused  in  your  presence." 

"  Shocked  to  hear  it,  I  am  sure.     May  I  inquire  why  ?" 

"  Sir,  can  I  enter  this  room  (where  you  sit  a  sufferer),  and  see  you 
surrounded  by  these  admirable  objects  of  Art.  without  discovering 
that  you  are  a  man  whose  feelings  are  acutely  impressionable,  whose 
sympathies  are  perpetually  alive  ?     Tell  me,  can  I  do  this  ?" 

If  I  had  been  strong  enough  to  sit  up  in  my  chair,  I  should,  of 
course,  have  bowed.  Not  being  strong  enough,  I  smiled  my  ac- 
knowledgments instead.  It  did  just  as  well — we  both  understood 
one  another. 


810  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

"  Pray  follow  my  train  of  thought,"  continued  the  Count.  "  I  sit 
here,  a  man  of  retincd  sympathies  myself,  in  the  presence  of  another 
man  of  refined  sympathies  also.  I  am  conscious  of  a  terrible  neces- 
sity for  lacerating  those  sympathies  by  referring  to  domestic  events 
of  a  very  melancholy  kind.  "What  is  the  inevitable  consequence  ? 
I  have  done  myself  the  honor  of  j^ointing  it  out  to  you  already.  I 
sit  confused." 

"Was  it  at  this  point  that  I  began  to  suspect  he  was  going  to  bore 
me  ?     I  rather  think  it  was. 

''  Is  it  absolutely  necessary  to  refer  to  these  unpleasant  matters  ?" 
I  inquired.  '"  In  our  homely  English  phrase,  Count  Fosco,  won't 
they  keep  V 

The  Count,  with  the  most  alarming  solemnity,  sighed  and  shook 
his  head. 

''  Must  I  really  hear  them  V 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  (it  was  the  first  foreign  thing  he  had 
done  since  he  had  been  in  the  room),  and  looked  at  me  in  an  un- 
pleasantly penetrating  manner.  My  instincts  told  me  that  I  had 
better  close  my  eyes.     I  obeyed  my  instincts. 

''  Please  break  it  gently,"  I  pleaded,     "Any  body  dead  ?" 

"  Dead !"  cried  the  Count,  with  unnecessary  foreign  fierceness. 
"  Mr.  Fairlie !  your  national  composure  terrifies  me.  In  the  name 
of  Heaven,  what  have  I  said  or  done,  to  make  you  think  me  the 
messenger  of  death  ?" 

"  Pray  accept  my  apologies,"  I  answered.  "  You  have  said  and 
done  nothing,  I  make  it  a  rule,  in  these  distressing  cases,  always  to 
anticipate  the  worst.  It  breaks  the  blow,  by  meeting  it  half-way, 
and  so  on.  Inexpressibly  relieved,  I  am  sure,  to  hear  that  nobody  is 
dead.     Any  body  ill  ?" 

I  opened  my  eyes,  and  looked  at  him.  "Was  he  very  yellow  when 
he  came  in  ?  or  had  he  turned  very  yellow  in  the  last  minute  or 
two  ?  I  really  can't  say  ;  and  I  can't  ask  Louis,  because  he  was  not 
in  the  room  at  the  time. 

"Any  body  ill  ?"  I  repeated,  observing  that  my  national  composure 
still  appeared  to  affbct  him. 

"  That  is  part  of  my  bad  news,  Mr.  Fairlie.  Yes.  Somebody  is 
ill." 

"  Grieved,  I  am  sure.     Which  of  them  is  it  ?" 

"  To  my  profound  sorrow.  Miss  Halcombe.  Perhaps  you  were  in 
some  degree  prepared  to  hear  this  ?  Perhaps,  when  you  found  that 
Miss  Halcombe  did  not  come  here  by  herself,  as  you  proposed,  and 
did  not  write  a  second  time,  your  affectionate  anxiety  may  have 
made  you  fear  that  she  was  ill  ?" 

I  liave  no  doubt  my  affectionate  anxiety  had  led  to  that  melan- 
choly apprehension  at  some  time  or  other,  but  at  the  moment  my 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  311 

wretched  memory  entirely  failed  to  remind  me  of  the  circumstance. 
However,  I  said  Yes,  in  justice  to  myself  I  was  mucli  shocked.  It 
was  so  very  uncharacteristic  of  such  a  robust  person  as  dear  Marian 
to  be  ill,  that  I  could  only  suppose  she  had  met  with  an  accident. 
A  horse,  or  a  false  step  on  the  stairs,  or  something  of  that  sort. 

"  Is  it  serious  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Serious — beyond  a  doubt,"  he  replied.  "  Dangerous — I  hope 
and  trust  not.  Miss  Halcombe  unhappily  exposed  herself  to  be 
wetted  through  by  a  heavy  rain.  The  cold  that  followed  was  of  an 
aggravated  kind,  and  it  has  now  brought  with  it  the  worst  conse- 
quence— Fever." 

"When  I  heard  the  word  Fever,  and  when  I  remembered,  at  the 
same  moment,  that  the  unscrupulous  person  who  was  now  address- 
ing me  had  just  come  from  Black  water  Park,  I  thought  I  should 
have  fainted  on  the  spot. 

"  Good  God  !"  I  said.     "  Is  it  infectious  ?" 

"Not  at  present,"  he  answered,  with  detestable  composure.  "It 
may  turn  to  infection — but  no  such  deplorable  complication  had 
taken  place  when  I  left  Blackwater  Park.  I  have  felt  the  deepest 
interest  in  the  case,  Mr.  Fairlie — I  have  endeavored  to  assist  the  reg- 
ular medical  attendant  in  watching  it — accept  my  personal  assur- 
ances of  the  uninfectious  nature  of  the  fever  when  I  last  saw  it." 

Accept  his  assurances !  I  never  was  further  from  accepting  any 
thing  in  my  life.  I  would  not  have  believed  him  on  his  oath.  He 
was  too  yellow  to  be  believed.  He  looked  like  a  walking- West-In- 
dian-epidemic. He  was  big  enough  to  carry  typhus  by  the  ton,  and 
to  dye  the  very  carpet  he  walked  on  with  scarlet  fever.  In  certain 
emergencies  my  mind  is  remarkably  soon  made  up.  I  instantly 
determined  to  get  rid  of  him. 

"You  will  kindly  excuse  an  invalid,"  I  said — "but  long  confer- 
ences of  any  kind  invariably  upset  me.  May  I  beg  to  know  exactly 
what  the  object  is  to  which  I  am  indebted  for  the  honor  of  your 
visit  ?" 

I  fervently  hoped  that  this  remarkably  broad  hint  would  throw 
him  oflf  his  balance — confuse  him — reduce  him  to  polite  apologies — 
in  short,  get  him  out  of  the  room.  On  the  contrary,  it  only  settled 
him  in  his  chair.  He  became  additionally  solemn  and  dignified  and 
confidential.  He  held  up  two  of  his  horrid  fingers,  and  gave  me  an- 
other of  his  unpleasantly  penetrating  looks.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  I 
was  not  strong  enough  to  quarrel  with  him.  Conceive  my  situa- 
tion, if  you  please.  Is  language  adequate  to  describe  it  ?  I  think 
not. 

"  The  objects  of  my  visit,"  he  went  on,  quite  irrepressibly,  "  are 
numbered  on  my  fingers.  They  are  two.  First,  I  come  to  bear  my 
testimony,  with  profound  sorrow,  to  the  lamentable  disagreements 


312  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

between  Sir  Percival  and  Lady  Glyde,  I  am  Sir  PercivaFs  oldest 
friend;  I  am  related  to  Lady  Glyde  by  marriage;  I  am  an  eye-wit- 
ness of  all  that  has  happened  at  Blaekwater  Park.  In  those  three 
capacities  I  speak  with  authority,  with  confidence,  with  honorable 
regret.  Sir  I  I  inform  you,  as  the  head  of  Lady  Glyde's  family,  that 
Miss  Halcombe  has  exaggerated  nothing  in  the  letter  which  she 
wrote  to  your  address.  I  affirm  that  the  remedy  which  that  ad- 
mirable lady  has  proposed  is  the  only  remedy  that  will  spare  you 
the  horrors  of  public  scandal.  A  temporary  separation  between 
husband  and  wife  is  the  one  peaceable  solution  of  this  difficulty. 
Part  them  for  the  present ;  and  when  all  causes  of  irritation  are  re- 
moved, I,  who  have  now  the  honor  of  addressing  you — I  will  under- 
take to  l)ring  Sir  Percival  to  reason.  Lady  Glyde  is  innocent.  Lady 
Glyde  is  injured;  but — follow  my  thought  here! — she  is,  on  that 
very  account  (I  say  it  with  shame),  the  cause  of  irritation  while  she 
remains  under  her  husband's  roof.  oSTo  other  house  can  receive  her 
with  propriety  but  yours.     I  invite  you  to  open  it !" 

Cool.  Here  was  a  matrimonial  hailstorm  pouring  in  the  South 
of  England  ;  and  I  was  invited,  by  a  man  with  fever  in  every  fold 
of  his  coat,  to  come  out  from  the  ISI^orth  of  England  and  take  my 
share  of  the  pelting.  I  tried  to  put  the  point  forcibly,  just  as  I 
have  put  it  here.  The  Count  deliberately  lowered  one  of  his  hor- 
rid fingers ;  kept  the  other  up ;  and  went  on — rode  over  me,  as  it 
were,  without  even  the  common  coachman-like  attention  of  crying 
''  Hi !"  before  he  knocked  me  down. 

''  Follow  my  thought  once  more,  if  you  please,"  he  resumed.  "  My 
first  object  you  have  heard.  My  second  object  in  coming  to  this 
house  is  to  do  what  Miss  Halcombe's  illness  has  prevented  her  from 
doing  for  herself  My  large  experience  is  consulted  on  all  difficult 
matters  at  Blaekwater  Park,  and  my  friendly  advice  was  requested 
on  the  interesting  subject  of  your  letter  to  Miss  Halcombe.  I  un- 
derstood at  once — for  my  sympathies  are  your  sympathies — why 
you  wished  to  see  her  here,  before  you  pledged  yourself  to  inviting 
Lady  Glyde.  You  are  most  right,  sir,  in  hesitating  to  receive  the 
wife  until  you  are  quite  certain  that  the  husband  will  not  exert  his 
authority  to  reclaim  her.  I  agree  to  that.  I  also  agree  that  such 
delicate  explanations  as  this  difficulty  involves  are  not  explanations 
which  can  be  properly  disposed  of  by  writing  only.  My  presence 
here  (to  my  own  great  inconvenience)  is  the  proof  that  I  speak  sin- 
cerely. As  for  the  explanations  themselves,  I — Fosco — I  who  know 
Sir  Percival  much  better  than  ]\Iiss  Halcombe  knows  him,  affirm  to 
you,  on  my  honor  and  my  word,  that  he  will  not  come  near  this 
house,  or  uttem])t  to  communicate  with  this  house,  while  his  wife 
is  living  in  it.  His  alfairs  are  embarrassed.  Offer  him  his  freedom, 
by  means  of  the  absence  of  Lady  Glyde.     I  promise  you  he  will 


e 


THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE.  b. 

take  his  freedom,  and  go  back  to  the  Continent,  at  the  earlier/:  -^jlo- 
ment  when  he  can  get  away.  Is  this  clear  to  you  as  crystal  ?  Yes, 
it  is.  Have  you  questions  to  address  to  me  ?  Be  it  so ;  I  am  here 
to  answer.  Ask,  Mr.  Fairlie — oblige  me  by  asking,  to  your  heart's 
content." 

He  had  said  so  much  already  in  spite  of  me,  and  he  looked  so 
dreadfully  capable  of  saying  a  great  deal  more,  also  in  spite  of  me, 
that  I  declined  his  amiable  invitation,  in  pure  self-defense. 

"  Many  thanks,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  sinking  fast.  In  my  state  of 
health,  I  must  take  things  for  granted.  Allow  me  to  do  so  on  this 
occasion.  We  quite  understand  each  other.  Yes.  Much  obliged, 
I  am  sure,  for  your  kind  interference.  If  I  ever  get  better,  and  ever 
have  a  second  opportunity  of  improving  our  acquaintance — " 

He  got  up,  I  thought  he  was  going.  No.  More  talk  ;  more 
time  for  the  development  of  infectious  influences — in  my  room,  too ; 
remember  that,  in  my  room  ! 

"  One  moment,  yet,"  he  said ;  "  one  moment,  before  I  take  my 
leave,  I  ask  permission,  at  parting,  to  impress  on  you  an  urgent 
necessity.  It  is  this,  sir  !  You  must  not  think  of  waiting  till  Miss 
Halcombe  recovers,  before  you  receive  Lady  Glyde,  Miss  Halcombe 
has  the  attendance  of  the  doctor,  of  the  housekeeper  at  Blackwater 
Park,  and  of  an  experienced  nurse  as  well — three  persons  for  whose 
capacity  and  devotion  I  answer  with  my  life.  I  tell  you  that,  I 
tell  you,  also,  that  the  anxiety  and  alarm  of  her  sister's  illness  has 
already  affected  the  health  and  spirits  of  Lady  Glyde,  and  has  made 
her  totally  unfit  to  be  of  use  in  the  sick-room.  Her  position  with 
her  husband  grows  more  and  more  deplorable  and  dangerous  evei-y 
day.  If  you  leave  her  any  longer  at  Blackwater  Park,  you  do  noth- 
ing whatever  to  hasten  her  sister's  recoveiy,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
you  risk  the  public  scandal,  which  you^  and  I,  and  all  of  us,  are 
bound,  in  the  sacred  interests  of  the  Family,  to  avoid.  With  all  my 
soul,  I  advise  you  to  remove  the  serious  responsibility  of  delay  from 
your  own  shoulders,  by  writing  to  Lady  Glyde  to  come  here  at 
once.  Do  your  affectionate,  your  honorable,  your  inevitable  duty ; 
and,  whatever  happens  in  the  future,  no  one  can  lay  the  blame  on 
you.  I  speak  from  my  large  experience  ;  I  offer  my  friendly  advice. 
Is  it  accepted — Yes,  or  No  ?" 

I  looked  at  him — merely  looked  at  him — with  my  sense  of  his 
amazing  assurance,  and  my  dawning  resolution  to  ring  for  Louis, 
and  have  him  shown  out  of  the  room,  expressed  in  every  line  of  my 
face.  It  is  perfectly  incredible,  but  quite  true,  that  my  face  did  not 
appear  to  produce  the  slightest  impression  on  him.  Born  without 
nerves — evidently,  born  without  nerves ! 

"  You  hesitate  ?"  he  said,  "  Mr.  Fairlie  !  I  understand  that  hesi- 
tation.     You  object  —  see,  sir,  how  my  svmpathies  look  straigot 


0 


.^  THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE. 

down  into  your  thoughts ! — you  object  that  Lady  Glyde  is  not  in 
liealth  and  not  in  spirits  to  take  tlie  long  journey,  from  Hampshire 
to  this  phice,  by  herself.  Her  own  maid  is  removed  from  her,  as 
you  know ;  and,  of  other  servants  tit  to  travel  with  her,  from  one 
end  of  England  to  another,  there  are  none  at  Blackwater  Park. 
You  object,  again,  that  she  can  not  comfortably  stop  and  rest  in 
London,  on  her  way  here,  because  she  can  not  comfortably  go  alone 
to  a  public  hotel  where  she  is  a  total  stranger.  In  one  breath,  I 
grant  both  objections — in  another  breath,  I  remove  them.  Follow 
me,  if  you  please,  for  the  last  time.  It  was  my  intention,  when  I  re- 
turned to  England  with  Sir  Percival,  to  settle  myself  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  London.  That  purj^jose  has  just  been  happily  accom- 
.plished.  I  have  taken,  for  six  months,  a  little  furnished  house  in 
the  quarter  called  St.  John's  Wood.  Be  so  obliging  as  to  keep  this 
fact  in  your  mind,  and  observe  the  programme  I  now  propose. 
Lady  Glyde  travels  to  London  (a  short  journey) — I  myself  meet  her 
at  the  station — I  take  her  to  rest  and  sleep  at  my  house,  which  is 
also  the  house  of  her  aunt — when  she  is  restored,  I  escort  her  to  the 
station  again — she  travels  to  this  place,  and  her  own  maid  (who  is 
now  under  your  roof)  receives  her  at  the  carriage-door.  Here  is 
comfort  consulted;  here  are  the  interests  of  propriety  consulted; 
here  is  your  own  duty — duty  of  hospitality,  sympathy,  protection,  to 
an  unhappy  lady  in  need  of  all  three — smoothed  and  made  easy, 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end.  I  cordially  invite  you,  sir,  to  sec- 
ond my  efforts  in  the  sacred  interests  of  the  Family.  I  seriously 
advise  you  to  write,  by  my  hands,  offering  the  hospitality  of  your 
house  (and  heart),  and  the  hospitality  of  my  house  (and  heart),  to 
that  injured  and  unfortunate  lady  whose  cause  I  plead  to-day." 

He  waved  his  honid  hand  at  me  ;  he  struck  his  infectious  breast ; 
he  addressed  me  omtorically — as  if  I  was  laid  up  in  the  House  of 
Commons.  It  was  high  time  to  take  a  desperate  course  of  some 
sort.  It  was  also  high  time  to  send  for  Louis,  and  adopt  the  pre- 
caution of  fumigating  the  room. 

In  this  trying  emergency  an  idea  occurred  to  me — an  inestimable 
idea  which,  so  to  speak,  killed  two  intrusive  birds  with  one  stone. 
I  detemiined  to  get  rid  of  the  Count's  tiresome  eloquence,  and  of 
Lady  Glyde's  tiresome  troubles,  by  complying  with  this  odious  for- 
eigner's request,  and  writing  the  letter  at  once.  Tliere  was  not  the 
least  danger  of  the  invitation  being  accepted,  for  there  was  not  the 
least  chance  that  Laura  would  consent  to  leave  Blackwater  Park 
while  Marian  was  lying  there  ill.  How  this  charmingly  convenient 
obstacle  could  have  escaped  the  officious  penetration  of  i\ui  Count 
it  was  impossiljle  to  conceive — but  it  had  escaped  him.  My  dread 
that  he  might  yet  discover  it,  if  I  allowed  him  any  more  time  to 
tliink,  Blimuhited  me  to  such  an  amazing  de 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  315 

into  a  sitting  position ;  seized,  really  seized,  the  writing  materials 
b}'  my  side ;  and  produced  the  letter  as  rapidly  as  if  I  had  been  a 
common  clerk  in  an  office.  "  Dearest  Laura — Please  come,  whenever 
you  like.  Break  the  journey  by  sleeping  in  London  at  your  aunt's 
house.  Grieved  to  hear  of  dear  Marian's  illness.  Ever  aflfectionate- 
ly  yours."  I  handed  these  lines,  at  arms-length,  to  the  Count  —  I 
sank  back  in  my  chair — I  said,  "  Excuse  me  ;  I  am  entirely  pros- 
trated :  I  can  do  no  more.  Will  you  rest  and  lunch  down  stairs  ? 
Love  to  all,  and  sympathy,  and  so  on.     Good-mormng."' 

He  made  another  speech — the  man  was  absolutely  inexhaustible. 
I  closed  my  eyes;  I  endeavored  to  hear  as  little  as  possible.  In 
spite  of  my  endeavors,  I  was  obliged  to  hear  a  great  deal.  My  sis- 
ter's endless  husband  congratulated  himself  and  congratulated  me 
on  the  result  of  our  interview ;  he  mentioned  a  great  deal  more 
about  his  sympathies  and  mine  ;  he  deplored  my  miserable  health ; 
he  oifered  to  write  me  a  prescription ;  he  impressed  on  me  the  ne- 
cessity of  not  forgetting  what  he  had  said  about  the  importance  of 
light;  he  accepted  my  obliging  invitation  to  rest  and  lunch;  he 
recommended  me  to  expect  Lady  Glyde  in  two  or  three  days'  time ; 
he  begged  my  permission  to  look  forward  to  our  next  meeting, 
instead  of  paining  himself  and  paining  me  by  saying  farewell ;  he 
added  a  great  deal  more,  which,  I  rejoice  to  think,  I  did  not  attend 
to  at  the  time,  and  do  not  remember  now.  I  heard  his  sympathetic 
voice  traveling  away  from  me  by  degrees — but,  large  as  he  was,  I 
never  heard  him.  He  had  the  negative  merit  of  being  absolutely 
noiseless.  I  don't  know  when  he  opened  the  door,  or  when  he  shut 
it.  I  ventured  to  make  use  of  my  eyes  again,  after  an  interval  of 
silence — and  he  was  gone. 

I  rang  for  Louis,  and  retired  to  my  bath-room.  Tepid  water, 
strengthened  with  aromatic  vinegar,  for  myself,  and  copious  fumi- 
gation, for  my  study,  were  the  obvious  precautions  to  take,  and  of 
course  I  adopted  them.  I  rejoice  to  say,  they  proved  successful.  I 
enjoyed  my  customary  siesta.     I  awoke  moist  and  cool. 

My  first  inquiries  were  for  the  Count.  Had  we  really  got  rid  of 
him  ?  Yes — he  had  gone  away  by  the  afternoon  train.  Had  he 
lunched ;  and,  if  so,  upon  what  ?  Entirely  upon  fruit  -  tart  and 
cream.     What  a  man  I     What  a  digestion  I 

Am  1  expected  to  say  any  thing  more  ?  I  believe  not.'  I  believe 
I  have  reached  the  limits  assigned  to  me.  The  shocking  circum- 
stances which  happened  at  a  later  period  did  not,  I  am  thankful  to 
say,  happen  in  my  presence.  I  do  beg  and  entreat  that  nobody  will 
be  so  very  unfeeling  as  to  lay  any  part  of  the  blame  of  those  cir- 
cumstances on  me.  I  did  every  thing  for  the  best.  I  am  not  an- 
swerable for  a  deplorable  calamity  which  it  was  quite  impossible  to 


old  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

foresee.  I  am  shattered  by  it ;  I  have  suffered  under  it,  as  nobody 
else  lias  suffered.  My  servant,  Louis  (who  is  really  attached  to  me, 
in  his  unintelligent  way),  thinks  I  shall  never  get  over  it.  He  sees 
mc  dictating  at  this  moment,  with  my  handkerchief  to  my  eyes.  I 
wish  to  mention,  in  justice  to  myself,  that  it  was  not  my  fault,  and 
that  I  am  quite  exhausted  and  heart-broken.     Need  I  say  more  ? 


The   Story  continued  bi/  Eliza  Michelsox,  Housekeeper  at 
Blackioater  Park. 

I. 

I  AM  asked  to  state  plainly  what  I  know  of  the  progress  of  Miss 
Halcombe's  illness,  and  of  the  circu^nstances  under  which  Lady 
Glyde  left  Blackwater  Park  for  London. 

The  reason  given  for  making  this  demand  on  me  is,  that  my  testi- 
mony is  wanted  in  the  interests  of  truth.  As  the  widow  of  a  clergy- 
man of  the  Church  of  England  (reduced  by  misfortune  to  the  neces- 
sity of  accepting  a  situation),  I  have  been  taught  to  place  the  claims 
of  truth  al)0ve  all  other  considerations.  I  therefore  comply  with  a 
request  which  I  might  otherwise,  through  reluctance  to  connect  my- 
self with  distressing  family  affairs,  have  hesitated  to  grant. 

I  made  no  memorandum  at  the  time,  and  I  can  not,  therefore,  be 
sure  to  a  day  of  the  date,  but  I  believe  I  am  correct  in  stating  that 
Miss  Halcombe's  serious  illness  began  during  the  last  fortnight  or 
ten  days  in  June.  The  breakfast  hour  was  late  at  Blackwater  Park 
—sometimes  as  late  as  ten,  never  earlier  than  half-past  nine.  On  the 
morning  to  which  I  am  now  referring.  Miss  Halcombe  (who  was 
usually  the  first  to  come  down)  did  not  make  her  appearance  at  the 
table.  After  the  family  had  waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  the  upper 
house-maid  was  sent  to  see  after  her,  and  came  running  out  of  the 
room  dreadfully  frightened.  I  met  the  servant  on  the  stairs,  and 
went  at  once  to  Miss  Halcombe  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  The 
poor  lady  was  incapable  of  telling  me.  She  was  walking  about  her 
room  with  a  pen  in  her  hand;  quite  light-headed,  in  a  state  of  burn- 
ing fever. 

Lady  Glyde  (being  no  longer  in  Sir  PercivaFs  service,  I  may,  with- 
out impropriety,  mention  my  former  mistress  by  her  name,  instead 
of  calling  her  My  Lady)  was  the  first  to  come  in,  from  her  own  bed- 
room. She  was  so  dreadfully  alarmed  and  distressed  that  she  was 
quite  useless.  The  Count  Fosco  and  his  Lady,  who  came  up  stairs 
immediately  afterward,  were  both  most  serviceable  and  kind.  Her 
ladyship  assisted  me  to  get  Miss  Halcombe  to  her  bed.  His  lord- 
ship tlie  Count  remained  in  the  sitting-room,  and,  having  sent  for 


THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE.  317 

my  medicine-chest,  made  a  mixture  for  Miss  Halcombe,  and  a  cool- 
ing lotion  to  be  applied  to  her  head,  so  as  to  lose  no  time  before  the 
doctor  came.  We  applied  the  lotion,  but  we  could  not  get  her  to 
take  the  mixture.  Sir  Percival  undertook  to  send  for  the  doctor. 
He  dispatched  a  groom,  on  horseback,  for  the  nearest  medical  man, 
Mr.  Dawson,  of  Oak  Lodge. 

Mr.  Dawson  arrived  in  less  than  an  hour's  time.  He  was  a  respect- 
able elderly  man,  well  known  all  round  the  country,  and  we  were 
much  alarmed  when  we  found  that  he  considered  the  case  to  be  a 
very  serious  one. 

His  lordship  the  Count  aflfably  entered  into  conversation  with  Mr. 
Dawson,  and  gave  his  opinions  with  a  judicious  freedom.  Mr.  Daw- 
son, not  over-courteously,  inquired  if  his  lordship's  advice  was  the 
advice  of  a  doctor ;  and  being  informed  that  it  was  the  advice  of 
one  that  had  studied  medicine,  unprofessionally,  replied  that  he  was 
not  accustomed  to  consult  with  amateur-physicians.  The  Count, 
with  truly  Christian  meekness  of  temper,  smiled,  and  left  the  room. 
Before  he  went  out,  he  told  me  that  he  might  be  found,  in  case  he 
was  wanted  in  the  course  of  the  day,  at  the  boat-house  on  the  banks 
of  the  lake.  Why  he  should  have  gone  there,  I  can  not  say.  But 
he  did  go,  remaining  away  the  whole  day  till  seven  o'clock,  which 
was  dinner-time.  Perhaps  he  wished  to  set  the  example  of  keeping 
the  house  as  quiet  as  possible.  It  was  entirely  in  his  character  to 
do  so.     He  was  a  most  considerate  nobleman. 

Miss  Halcombe  passed  a  very  bad  night,  the  fever  coming  and 
going,  and  getting  worse  toward  the  morning,  instead  of  better. 
No  nurse  fit  to  wait  on  her  being  at  hand  in  the  neighborhood,  her 
ladyship  the  Countess,  and  myself,  undertook  the  duty,  relieving 
each  other.  Lady  Glyde,  most  unwisely,  insisted  on  sitting  up  with 
us.  She  was  much  too  nervous  and  too  delicate  in  health  to  bear 
the  anxiety  of  Miss  Halcombe's  illness  calmly.  She  only  did  her- 
self hami,  without  being  of  the  least  real  assistance.  A  more  gentle 
and  aflectionate  lady  never  lived ;  but  she  cried,  and  she  was  fright- 
ened— two  weaknesses  which  made  her  entirely  unfit  to  be  present 
in  a  sick-room. 

Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  came  in  the  morning  to  make  their 
inquiries. 

Sir  Percival  (from  distress,  I  presume,  at  his  lady's  afiiiction,  and 
at  Miss  Halcombe's  illness)  appeared  much  confased  and  unsettled 
in  his  mind.  His  lordship  testified,  on  the  contrary,  a  becoming 
composure  and  interest.  He  had  his  straw  hat  in  one  hand  and  his 
book  in  the  other ;  and  he  mentioned  to  Sir  Percival,  in  my  hear- 
ing, that  he  would  go  out  again  and  study  at  the  lake.  ''  Let  us 
keep  the  house  quiet,"  he  said.  "  Let  us  not  smoke  indoors,  my 
friend,  now  Miss  Halcombe  is  ill.     You  go  your  way,  and  I  will 


318  THE    WOMAN'    IN    WHITE. 

go  mine.  When  I  study,  I  like  to  be  alone.  Good-morning,  Mrs. 
Michelson." 

Sir  Percival  was  not  civil  enough — pcrliaps,  I  ought  in  justice  to 
say,  not  composed  enough — to  take  leave  of  me  with  the  same  polite 
attention.  The  only  person  in  the  house,  indeed,  who  treated  me, 
at  that  time  or  at  any  other,  on  the  footing  of  a  lady  in  distressed 
circumstances,  was  the  Count.  He  had  the  manners  of  a  true  noble- 
man ;  he  was  considerate  toward  every  one.  Even  the  young  per- 
son (Fanny  by  name)  who  attended  on  Lady  Glyde  was  not  beneath 
his  notice.  When  she  was  sent  away  by  Sir  Percival,  his  lordship 
(showing  me  his  sweet  little  birds  at  the  time)  was  most  kindly 
anxious  to  know  what  had  become  of  her,  where  she  was  to  go  the 
day  she  left  Blackwater  Park,  and  so  on.  It  is  in  such  little  deli- 
cate attentions  that  the  advantages  of  aristocratic  birth  always  show 
themselves.  I  make  no  apology  for  introducing  these  particulars ; 
they  are  brought  forward  in  justice  to  his  lordsliip,  whose  character, 
I  have  reason  to  know,  is  viewed  rather  harshly  in  certain  quarters. 
A  nobleman  who  can  respect  a  lady  in  distressed  circumstances,  and 
\/can  take  a  fatherly  interest  in  tlie  fortunes  of  an  humble  servant-girl, 
shows  principles  and  feelings  of  too  high  an  order  to  l)e  lightly 
called  in  question.  I  advance  no  opinions — I  offer  facts  only.  My 
endeavor  through  life  is  to  judge  not,  that  I  be  not  judged.  One 
of  my  beloved  husband's  finest  sermons  was  on  that  text.  I  read  it 
constantly — in  my  own  copy  of  the  edition  printed  by  subscription, 
in  the  first  days  of  my  widowhood — and,  in  every  fresh  jjerusal,  I 
derive  an  increase  of  spiritual  benefit  and  edification. 

There  was  no  improvement  in  Miss  Halcombe,  and  the  second 
night  was  even  worse  than  the  first.  Mr.  Dawson  was  constant  in 
his  attendance.  The  practical  duties  of  nursing  were  still  divided 
between  the  Countess  and  myself,  Lady  Glyde  persisting  in  sitting 
up  with  us,  though  we  both  entreated  her  to  take  some  rest.  "  My 
place  is  by  Marian's  bedside,"  was  her  only  answer.  ''  Whether  I 
am  ill  or  well,  nothing  will  induce  me  to  lose  sight  of  her." 

Toward  midday  I  went  down  stairs  to  attend  to  some  of  my  reg- 
ular duties.  An  hour  afterward,  on  my  way  back  to  the  sick-room, 
I  saw  the  Count  (who  had  gone  out  again  early,  for  the  third  time) 
entering  the  hall,  to  all  appearance  in  the  highest  good  spirits.  Sir 
Percival,  at  the  same  moment,  put  his  head  out  of  the  library  door, 
and  addressed  his  noble  friend,  with  extreme  eagerness,  in  these 
words : 

"  Have  you  found  her  ?" 

His  lordship's  large  face  became  dimpled  all  over  with  placid 
smiles ;  ]jut  he  made  no  reply  in  words.  At  the  same  time  Sir  Per- 
cival turned  his  head,  observed  that  I  was  apDroaching  the  stairs, 
and  looked  at  me  in  the  most  rudely  angry  manner  possible. 


THE    V/OMAX    IX   WHITE.  319 

"  Come  in  here  and  tell  me  about  it,"  he  said  to  the  Count. 
'■  Whenever  there  are  women  in  a  house,  they're  always  sure  to  be 
going  up  or  down  stairs." 

"  My  dear  Percival,"  observed  his  lordship,  kindly,  "  Mrs.  Michel- 
son  has  duties.  Pray  recognize  her  admirable  performance  of  them 
as  sincerely  as  I  do  !     How  is  the  sufferer,  Mrs.  Michelson  ?" 

"  No  better,  my  lord,  I  regret  to  say." 

"  Sad — most  sad  !"  remarked  the  Count.  "  You  look  fatigued, 
Mrs.  Michelson.  It  is  certainly  time  you  and  my  wife  had  some 
help  in  nursing.  I  think  I  may  be  the  means  of  offering  you  that 
liclp.  Circumstances  have  happened  which  will  oblige  Madame 
Fosco  to  travel  to  London,  either  to-morrow  or  the  day  after.  She 
will  go  away  in  the  morning,  and  return  at  night;  and  she  will 
bring  back  with  her,  to  relieve  you,  a  nurse  of  excellent  conduct 
and  capacity,  who  is  now  disengaged.  The  woman  is  known  to 
my  wife  as  a  person  to  be  trusted.  Before  she  comes  here,  say 
nothing  about  her,  if  you  please,  to  the  doctor,  because  he  will  look 
with  an  evil  eye  on  any  nurse  of  my  jDroviding.  When  she  appears 
in  this  house  she  Tvdll  speak  for  herself,  and  iMr.  Dawson  will  be 
obliged  to  acknowledge  that  there  is  no  excuse  for  not  employing 
her.  Lady  Glyde  will  say  the  same.  Pray  present  my  best  re- 
sjDccts  and  sympathies  to  Lady  Glyde." 

I  expressed  my  grateful  acknowledgments  for  his  lordship's  kind 
consideration.  Sir  Percival  cut  them  short  by  calling  to  his  noble 
friend  (using,  I  regret  to  say,  a  profane  expression)  to  come  into  the 
library,  and  not  to  keep  him  waiting  there  any  longer. 

I  proceeded  up  stairs.  We  are  poor  erring  creatures,  and  howev- 
er well  established  a  woman's  principles  may  be,  she  can  not  always 
keep  on  her  guard  against  the  temptation  to  exercise  an  idle  curi- 
osity. I  am  ashamed  to  say  that  an  idle  curiosity,  on  this  occasion, 
got  the  better  of  my  principles,  and  made  me  unduly  inquisitive 
about  the  question  which  Sir  Percival  had  addressed  to  his  noble 
friend  at  the  library  door.  Who  was  the  Count  expected  to  find 
in  the  course  of  his  studious  morning  rambles  at  Blackwater  Park  ? 
A  woman,  it  was  to  be  presumed,  from  the  terms  of  Sir  Percival's 
inquiry.  I  did  not  suspect  the  Count  of  any  impropriety — I  knew 
his  moral  character  too  well  The  only  question  I  asked  myself 
was — Had  he  found  her  ? 

To  resume.  The  night  passed  as  usual,  without  producing  any 
change  for  the  better  in  Miss  Halcombe.  The  next  day  she  seemed 
to  improve  a  little.  The  day  after  that,  her  ladyship  the  Countess, 
without  mentioning  the  object  of  her  journey  to  any  one  in  my  hear- 
ing, proceeded  by  the  morning  train  to  London,  her  noble  husband, 
with  his  customary  attention,  accompanying  her  to  the  station. 

I  was  now  left  in  sole  charge  of  Miss  Halcombe,  with  every  appar- 


320  THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

ent  chance,  in  consequence  of  her  sister's  resolution  not  to  leave  the 
bedside,  of  having  Lady  Glyde  herself  to  nurse  next. 

The  only  circumstance  of  any  imi)ortance  that  happened  in  the 
coui-se  of  the  day  was  the  occurrence  of  another  unpleasant  meeting 
between  the  doctor  and  the  Count. 

His  lordship,  on  returning  from  the  station,  stepped  up  into  Wi^'i 
Ilalcombe's  sitting-room,  to  make  his  inquiries.  I  went  out  from 
the  bcdfoom  to  speak  to  him,  Mr.  Dawson  and  Lady  Glyde  being 
both  with  the  patient  at  the  time.  The  Count  asked  me  many 
questions  about  the  treatment  and  the  symptoms.  I  informed  him 
that  tlie  treatment  was  of  the  kind  described  as  "  saline,"  and  that 
the  symptoms  between  the  attacks  of  fever  were  certainly  those  of 
increasing  weakness  and  exhaustion.  Just  as  I  was  mentioning 
these  last  particulars,  Mr.  Dawson  came  out  from  the  bedroom. 

'■'■  Good-morning,  sir,"  said  his  lordship,  stepping  forward  in  the 
most  url3ane  manner,  and  stopping  the  doctor,  with  a  high-bred  res- 
olution impossible  to  resist ;  "  I  greatly  fear  you  find  no  improvement 
in  the  symptoms  to-day  ?" 

"  I  find  decided  improvement,"  answered  Mr.  Dawson. 

"  You  still  persist  in  your  lowering  treatment  of  this  case  of  fe- 
ver?" continued  his  lordship. 

"  I  persist  in  the  treatment  which  is  justified  by  my  own  profes- 
sional experience,"  said  Mr.  Dawson. 

"  Permit  me  to  put  one  question  to  you  on  the  vast  subject  of 
professional  experience,"  observed  the  Count.  "  I  presume  to  ofier 
no  more  advice — I  only  presume  to  make  an  inquiiy.  You  live  at 
some  distance,  sir,  from  the  gigantic  centres  of  scientific  activity — 
London  and  Paris.  Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  wasting  efiects  of 
fever  being  reasonably  and  intelligibly  repaired  by  fortifying  the 
exhausted  patient  with  brandy,  wine,  ammonia,  and  quinine  ?  Has 
that  new  heresy  of  the  highest  medical  authorities  ever  reached 
your  ears — Yes,  or  No  ?" 

"  When  a  professional  man  puts  that  question  to  me,  I  shall  bo 
glad  to  answer  him,"  said  the  doctor,  opening  the  door  to  go  out. 
"  You  are  not  a  professional  man,  and  I  beg  to  decline  answering 
yow." 

Buflfeted  in  this  inexcusably  uncivil  way,  on  one  cheek,  the  Count, 
like  a  practical  Christian,  immediately  turned  the  other,  and  said,  in 
the  sweetest  manner,  "-  Good-morning,  Mr.  Dawson." 

If  my  late  beloved  husband  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  know  his 
lordship,  how  highly  he  and  the  Count  would  have  esteemed  each 
other  ! 

Her  ladyship  the  Countess  returned  by  the  last  train  that  night, 
and  brought  with  her  the  nurse  from  London.     I  was  instructed 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  321 

that  this  person's  name  was  Mrs.  Rubelle.  Her  personal  appear- 
ance, and  her  imperfect  English,  when  she  spoke,  informed  me  that 
she  was  a  foreigner. 

I  liave  always  cultivated  a  feeling  of  humane  indulgence  for  for- 
eigners. They  do  not  possess  our  blessings  and  advantages,  and 
they  are,  for  the  most  part,  brought  up  in  the  blind  errors  of  popery. 
It  has  also  always  been  my  precept  and  practice,  as  it  was  my  dear 
husband's  precept  and  jDractice  before  me  (see  Sermon  xxrx.,  in  the 
Collection  by  the  late  Rev.  Samuel  3Iichelson,  M.  A.),  to  do  as  I 
would  be  done  by.  On  both  these  accounts,  I  will  not  say  that 
Mrs.  Rubelle  struck  me  as  being  a  small,  wiry,  sly  person,  of  fifty  or 
thereabouts,  with  a  dark  brown  or  Creole  complexion,  and  watchful, 
light  gray  eyes.  Nor  will  I  mention,  for  the  reasons  just  alleged, 
that  I  thought  her  dress,  though  it  was  of  the  plainest  black  silk, 
inappropriately  costly  in  texture  and  unnecessarily  refined  in  trim- 
ming and  finish,  for  a  person  in  her  position  in  life.  I  should  not 
like  these  things  to  be  said  of  me,  and  therefore  it  is  my  duty  not 
to  say  them  of  Mrs.  Rubelle.  I  will  merely  mention  that  her  man- 
ners were — not,  perhaps,  unpleasantly  reserved — but  only  remarka- 
bly quiet  and  retiring ;  that  she  looked  about  her  a  great  deal,  and 
said  very  little,  which  might  have  arisen  quite  as  much  from  her 
own  modesty  as  from  distrust  of  her  position  at  Blackwater  Park ; 
and  that  she  declined  to  partake  of  supper  (which  was  curious,  per- 
haps, but  surely  not  suspicious  ?),  although  I  myself  j^olitely  invited 
her  to  that  meal,  in  my  own  room. 

At  the  Count's  particular  suggestion  (so  like  his  lordship's  for- 
giving kindness  1),  it  was  arranged  that  Mrs.  Rubelle  should  not  en- 
ter on  her  duties  until  she  had  been  seen  and  approved  by  the  doc- 
tor the  next  morning.  I  sat  up  that  night.  Lady  Clyde  appeared 
to  be  very  unwilling  that  the  new  nurse  should  be  employed  to  at- 
tend on  Miss  Halcombe.  •  Such  want  of  liberality  toward  a  foreign- 
er on  the  part  of  a  lady  of  her  education  and  refinement  surprised 
me.  I  ventured  to  say,  "  My  lady,  we  must  all  remember  not  to  be 
hasty  in  our  judgments  on  our  inferiors — especially  when  they  come 
from  foreign  f)arts."  Lady  Clyde  did  not  appear  to  attend  to  me. 
She  only  sighed,  and  kissed  Miss  Halcombe's  hand  as  it  lay  on  the 
counterpane.  Scarcely  a  judicious  proceeding  in  a  sick-room,  with 
a  patient  whom  it  was  highly  desirable  not  to  excite.  But  poor 
Lady  Clyde  knew  nothing  of  nursing — nothing  whatever,  I  am 
sorry  to  say. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Rubelle  was  sent  to  the  sitting-room,  to 
be  approved  by  the  doctor,  on  his  way  through  to  the  bedroom. 

I  left  Lady  Clyde  with  Miss  Halcombe,  who  was  slumbering  at 
the  time,  and  joined  Mrs.  Rubelle,  with  the  object  of  kindly  prevent- 
ing her  from  feeling  strange  and  nervous  in  consequence  of  the  un- 

14* 


322  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

certainty  of  her  situation.  She  did  not  appear  to  see  it  in  that  light. 
She  seemed  to  he  quite  satisfied,  ])eforehand,  that  Mr.  Dawson  would 
approve  of  her,  and  she  sat  calmly  looking  out  of  window^,  with 
every  appearance  of  enjoying  the  countrj^  air.  Some  people  might 
have  thought  such  conduct  suggestive  of  brazen  assurance.  I  beg 
to  say  that  I  more  liberally  set  it  down  to  extraordinary  strength  of 
mind. 

Instead  of  the  doctor  coming  up  to  us,  I  was  sent  for  to  see  the 
doctor.  I  thought  this  change  of  affairs  rather  odd,  but  Mrs.  Ru- 
belle  did  not  appear  to  be  affected  by  it  in  any  way.  I  left  her  still 
calmly  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  still  silently  enjoying  the 
country  air. 

Mr.  Dawson  was  waiting  for  me,  by  himself,  in  the  breakfast-room. 

"About  this  new  nurse,  Mrs.  Michelson,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  sir  ?" 

"  I  find  that  she  has  been  brouglit  here  from  London  by  the  w^ife 
of  tliat  fat  old  foreigner,  who  is  always  trying  to  interfere  with  me. 
Mrs.  Michelson,  the  fat  old  foreigner  is  a  Quack." 

This  was  very  rude.     I  was  naturally  shocked  at  it. 

"  Are  you  aware,  sir,"  I  said,  "■  that  you  are  talking  of  a  noble- 
man ?" 

"  Pooh !  He  isn't  the  first  Quack  with  a  handle  to  his  name. 
They're  all  Counts — hang  'em  !" 

"  He  w^ould  not  be  a  friend  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde's,  sir,  if  he  was 
not  a  member  of  the  highest  aristocracy — excepting  the  English 
aristocracy,  of  course." 

"  Very  well,  Mrs.  Michelson,  call  him  what  you  like ;  and  let  us 
get  l)ack  to  the  nurse.     I  have  been  objecting  to  her  already." 

"  Without  having  seen  her,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  without  having  seen  her.  She  may  be  the  best  nurse  in 
existence  ;  Ijut  she  is  not  a  nurse  of  my  providing.  I  have  put  that 
objection  to  Sir  Percival,  as  the  master  of  the  house.  He  doesn't 
support  me.  He  says  a  nurse  of  my  providing  would  have  been  a 
stranger  from  London  also;  and  he  thinks  the  woman  ought  to 
have  a  trial,  after  his  wife's  aunt  has  taken  the  trouble  to  fetch  her 
from  London.  There  is  some  justice  in  that ;  and  I  can't  decently 
say  No.  But  I  have  made  it  a  condition  that  she  is  to  go  at  once, 
if  I  find  reason  to  complain  of  her.  This  proposal  being  one  which 
I  have  some  right  to  make,  as  medical  attendant,  Sir  Percival  has 
consented  to  it.  Now,  Mrs.  Michelson,  I  know  I  can  depend  on 
you ;  and  I  want  you  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  the  nurse  for  the  first 
day  or  two,  and  to  see  that  she  gives  Miss  Halcombe  no  medicines 
but  mine.  This  foreign  nobleman  of  yours  is  dying  to  try  his  quack 
remedies  (mesmerism  included)  on  my  patient,  and  a  nurse  who  is 
brought  here  by  his  wife  may  be  a  little  too  willing  to  help  him. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  323 

You  understand  ?  Very  well,  then,  we  may  go  up  stairs.  Is  the  nurse 
there  ?     I'll  say  a  word  to  her,  before  she  goes  into  the  sick-room," 

We  found  Mrs.  Rubelle  still  enjoying  herself  at  the  window. 
"When  I  introduced  her  to  Mr.  Dawson,  neither  the  doctor's  doubt- 
ful looks  nor  the  doctor's  searching  questions  appeared  to  confuse 
her  in  the  least.  She  answered  him  quietly  in  her  broken  English ; 
and,  though  he  tried  hard  to  puzzle  her,  she  never  betrayed  the 
least  ignorance,  so  far,  about  any  part  of  her  duties.  This  was 
doubtless  the  result  of  strength  of  mind,  as  I  said  before,  and  not  of 
brazen  assurance,  by  any  means. 

We  all  went  into  the  bedroom. 

Mrs.  Rubelle  looked  very  attentively  at  the  patient ;  courtesied  to 
Lady  Glyde ;  set  one  or  two  little  things  right  in  the  room ;  and 
sat  down  quietly  in  a  corner  to  wait  until  she  was  wanted.  Her 
ladyship  seemed  startled  and  annoyed  by  the  appearance  of  the 
strange  nurse.  No  one  said  any  thing,  for  fear  of  rousing  Miss  Hal- 
combe,  who  was  still  slumbering — except  the  doctor,  who  whispered 
a  question  about  the  night.  I  softly  answered,  "  Much  as  usual ;" 
and  then  Mr.  Dawson  went  out.  Lady  Glyde  followed  him,  I  sup- 
pose to  speak  about  Mrs.  Rubelle.  For  my  own  part,  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  already  that  this  quiet  foreign  person  would  keep  her 
situation.  She  had  all  her  wits  about  her,  and  she  certainly  under- 
stood her  business.  So  far,  I  could  hardly  have  done  much  better 
by  the  bedside  myself. 

Remembering  Mr.  Dawson's  caution  to  me,  I  subjected  Mrs.  Ru- 
belle to  a  severe  scrutiny,  at  certain  intervals,  for  the  next  three  or 
four  days.  I  over  and  over  again  entered  the  room  softly  and  sud- 
denly, but  I  never  found  her  out  in  any  suspicious  action.  Lady 
Glyde,  who  watched  her  as  attentively  as  I  did,  discovered  nothing 
either.  I  never  detected  a  sign  of  the  medicine-bottles  being  tam~ 
pered  with ;  I  never  saw  Mrs.  Rubelle  say  a  word  to  the  Count,  or 
the  Count  to  her.  She  managed  Miss  Halcombe  with  unquestiona- 
ble care  and  discretion.  The  poor  lady  wavered  backward  and  for- 
ward between  a  sort  of  sleepy  exhaustion  which  was  half  faintn^ss 
and  half  slumbering,  and  attacks  of  fever  which  brought  with  them 
more  or  less  of  wandering  in  her  mind.  Mrs.  Rubelle  never  dis- 
turbed her  in  the  first  case,  and  never  startled  her  in  the  second, 
by  appearing  too  suddenly  at  the  bedside  in  the  character  of  a 
stranger.  Honor  to  whom  honor  is  due  (whether  foreign  or  En- 
glish)— and  I  give  her  privilege  impartially  to  Mrs.  Rubelle.  She 
was  remarkably  uncommunicative  about  herself,  and  she  was  too 
quietly  independent  of  all  advice  from  experienced  persons  who  un- 
derstood the  duties  of  a  sick-room — but,  with  these  drawbacks,  she 
was  a  good  nurse ;  and  she  never  gave  either  Lady  Glyde  or  Mi; 
Dawson  the  shadow  of  a  reason  for  complaining  of  her. 


324  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

The  next  circumstance  of  importance  that  occurred  in  the  house 
was  the  temporary  absence  of  the  Count,  occasioned  by  business 
which  took  him  to  London.  He  went  away  (I  think)  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  fourth  day  after  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Rubelle,  and  at  part- 
ing lie  spoke  to  Lady  Glyde,  very  seriously,  in  my  presence,  on  the 
subject  of  Miss  Halcombe. 

"  Trust  Mr.  Dawson,"  he  said,  "  for  a  few  days  more,  if  you  please. 
But  if  tlicre  is  not  some  change  for  the  better  in  that  time,  send  for 
advice  from  London,  which  this  mule  of  a  doctor  must  accept  in 
spite  of  himself  Offend  Mr.  Dawson,  and  save  Miss  Halcombe.  I 
say  this  seriously,  on  my  word  of  honor  and  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart." 

His  lordship  spoke  with  extreme  feeling  and  kindness.  But  poor 
Lady  Glyde's  nerves  were  so  completely  broken  down  that  she 
seemed  quite  frightened  at  him.  She  trembled  from  head  to  foot, 
and  allowed  him  to  take  his  leave  without  uttering  a  word  on  her 
side.  She  turned  to  me,  when  he  had  gone,  and  said,  "  Oh,  Mrs. 
Michelson,  I  am  heart-broken  about  my  sister,  and  I  have  no  friend 
to  advise  me  !  Do  you  think  Mr.  Dawson  is  wrong  ?  He  told  me 
himself  this  morning  that  there  was  no  fear,  and  no  need  to  send 
for  another  doctor." 

"  With  all  respect  to  ]\Ir.  Dawson,"  I  answered,  "  in  your  lady- 
ship's place,  I  should  remember  the  Count's  advice." 

Lady  Glyde  turned  away  from  me  suddenly,  with  an  appearance 
of  despair,  for  which  I  was  quite  unable  to  account. 

''^  His  advice  !"  she  said  to  herself     "  God  help  us — his  advice  !" 

The  Count  was  away  from  Blackwater  Park,  as  nearly  as  I  re- 
member, a  week. 

Sir  Percival  seemed  to  feel  the  loss  of  his  lordship  in  various 
ways,  and  appeared  also,  I  thought,  much  depressed  and  altered  by 
the  sickness  and  sorrow  in  the  house.  Occasionally  he  was  so  very 
restless  that  I  could  not  help  noticing  it,  coming  and  going,  and 
wandering  here  and  there  and  everywhere  in  the  grounds.  His 
inquiries  about  Miss  Halcombe,  and  about  his  lady  (whose  failing 
health  seemed  to  cause  him  sincere  anxiety)  were  most  attentive, 
I  think  his  heart  was  much  softened.  If  some  kind  clerical  friend 
— some  such  friend  as  he  might  have  found  in  my  late  excellent 
husband — had  been  near  him  at  this  time,  cheering  moral  progress 
might  have  ly-^en  made  with  Sir  Percival.  I  seldom  find  myself 
mistaken  on  a  point  of  this  sort,  having  had  experience  to  guide  me 
in  my  happy  married  days.  • 

Her  ladyship  the  Countess,  who  was  now  the  only  company  for 
Sir  Percival  down  stairs,  rather  neglected  him,  as  I  considered.  Or, 
perhaps,  it  might  have  been  that  he  neglected  her.      A  strange: 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVHITE.  325 

might  almost  have  supposed  that  they  were  bent,  novr  they  were 
left  together  alone,  on  actually  avoiding  one  another.  This,  of 
course,  could  not  be.  But  it  did  so  happen,  nevertheless,  that  the 
Countess  made  her  dinner  at  luncheon-time,  and  that  she  always 
came  up  stairs  toward  evening,  although  Mrs.  Rubelle  had  taken 
the  nursing  duties  entirely  oif  her  hands.  Sir  Percival  dined  by 
liimself,  and  William  (the  man  out  of  livery)  made  the  remark,  in 
my  hearing,  that  his  master  had  put  himself  on  half  rations  of  food 
and  on  a  double  allowance  of  clrink.  I  attach  no  importance  to 
such  an  insolent  observation  as  this,  on  the  part  of  a  servant.  I 
reprobated  it  at  the  time,  and  I  wish  to  be  understood  as  repro- 
bating it  once  more  on  this  occasion. 

In  the  course  of  the  next  few  days  Miss  Halcombe  did  certainly 
seem  to  all  of  us  to  be  mending  a  little.  Our  faith  in  Mr.  Dawson 
revived.  He  appeared  to  be  very  confident  about  the  case,  and  he 
assured  Lady  Glyde,  when  she  spoke  to  him  on  the  subject,  that  he 
would  himself  propose  to  send  for  a  physician  the  moment  he  felt 
so  much  as  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  crossing  his  own  mind. 

The  only  person  among  us  who  did  not  appear  to  be  relieved  by 
these  words  was  the  Countess.  She  said  to  me  privately  that  she 
could  not  feel  easy  about  Miss  Halcombe  on  Mr.  Dawson's  authori- 
ty, and  that  she  should  wait  anxiously  for  her  husband's  opinion, 
on  his  return.  That  return,  his  letters  informed  her,  would  take 
place  in  three  days'  time.  The  Count  and  Countess  corresponded 
regularly  every  morning,  during  his  lordship's  absence.  They  were 
in  that  respect,  as  in  all  others,  a  pattern  to  married  people. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  I  noticed  a  change  in  Miss  Hal- 
combe, which  caused  me  serious  apprehension.  Mrs.  Rubelle  no- 
ticed it  too.  We  said  nothing  on  the  subject  to  Lady  Glyde,  who 
was  then  lying  asleep,  completely  overpowered  by  exhaustion,  on 
the  sofa  in  the  sitting-room. 

Mr.  Dawson  did  not  pay  his  evening  visit  till  later  than  usual. 
As  soon  as  he  set  eyes  on  his  patient  I  saw  his  face  alter.  He  tried 
to  hide  it,  but  he  looked  both  confused  and  alarmed.  A  messenger 
was  sent  to  his  residence  for  his  medic; ue-chest,  disinfecting  prepa- 
rations were  used  in  the  room,  and  a  bed  was  made  up  for  him  in 
the  house  by  his  own  directions.  "  Has  the  fever  turned  to  infec- 
tion ?''  I  whispered  to  him.  "  I  am  afraid  it  has,"  he  answered ; 
''we  shall  know  better  to-morrow  morning." 

By  Mr.  Dawson's  own  directions  Lady  Glyde  was  kept  in  igno- 
rance of  this  change  for  the  worse.  He  himself  absolutely  forbade 
her,  on  account  of  her  health,  to  join  us  in  the  bedroom  that  night. 
She  tried  to  resist — there  was  a  sad  scene — but  he  had  his  medical 
authority  to  support  him,  and  he  carried  his  point. 

The  next  morning  one  of  the  men-servants  was  sent  to  London, 


32G  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

at  eleven  o'clock,  with  a  letter  to  a  physician  in  town,  and  with  or- 
ders to  bring  the  new  doctor  back  with  him  by  the  earliest  possible 
train.  Half  an  hour  after  the  messenger  had  gone  the  Count  re- 
turned to  Blackwater  Park. 

The  Countess,  on  her  own  responsibility,  immediately  brought 
him  in  to  see  the  patient.  There  was  no  impropriety  that  I  could 
discover  in  her  taking  this  course.  His  lordship  was  a  married 
man;  he  was  old  enough  to  be  Miss  Halcombe's  father;  and  he  saw 
her  in  the  presence  of  a  female  relative.  Lady  Glyde's  aunt.  Mr. 
Dawson,  nevertheless,  protested  against  his  presence  in  the  room ; 
but,  I  cculd  plainly  remark,  the  doctor  was  too  much  alarmed  to 
make  any  serious  resistance  on  this  occasion. 

The  poor  suffering  lady  was  past  knowing  any  one  about  her. 
She  seemed  to  take  her  friends  for  enemies.  When  the  Count  ap- 
proached her  bedside,  her  eyes,  which  had  been  wandering  inces- 
santly round  and  round  the  room  before,  settled  on  his  face  with  a 
dreadful  stare  of  terror,  which  I  shall  remember  to  my  dying  day. 
The  Count  sat  down  by  her,  felt  her  pulse  and  her  temples,  looked 
at  her  very  attentively,  and  then  turned  round  upon  the  doctor  with 
such  an  expression  of  indignation  and  contempt  in  his  face  that  the 
words  failed  on  Mr.  Dawson's  lips,  and  he  stood  for  a  moment  pale 
with  anger  and  alarm — pale  and  perfectly  speechless. 

His  lordship  looked  next  at  me. 

"  When  did  the  change  happen  ?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  the  time. 

"  Has  Lady  Glyde  been  in  the  room  since  ?" 

I  replied  that  she  had  not.  The  doctor  had  absolutely  forbidden 
her  to  come  into  the  room  on  the  evening  before,  and  had  repeated 
the  order  again  in  the  morning. 

''  Have  you  and  Mrs.  Rubelle  been  made  aware  of  the  full  extent 
of  the  mischief?"  was  his  next  question. 

We  were  aware,  I  answered,  that  the  malady  was  considered  in- 
fectious.    He  stopped  me  before  I  could  add  any  thing  more. 

"  It  IS  typhus  fever,"  he  said. 

In  the  minute  that  passed,  while  these  questions  and  answers  were 
going  on,  Mr.  Dawson  recovered  himself,  and  addressed  the  Count 
with  his  customary  firmness. 

"  It  is  not  typhus  fever,"  he  remarked,  sharply.  "  I  protest  against 
this  intrusion,  sir.  No  one  has  a  right  to  put  questions  here  but  me. 
I  have  done  my  duty  to  the  best  of  my  ability — " 

The  Count  interrupted  him — not  by  words,  but  only  by  pointing 
to  the  bed.  Mr.  Dawson  seemed  to  feel  that  silent  contradiction  to 
his  assertion  of  his  own  ability,  and  to  grow  only  the  more  angry 
under  it. 

"I  say  I  have  done  my  duty,"  he  reiterated.     "A  physician  has 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  327 

been  sent  for  from  London.  I  will  consnlt  on  the  nature  of  the  fe- 
ver with  him,  and  witli  no  one  else,  I  insist  on  your  leaving  tlie 
room." 

"  I  entered  this  room,  sir,  in  the  sacred  interests  of  humanity,*' 
said  the  Count.  '•  And  in  the  same  interests,  if  the  coming  of  the 
physician  is  delayed,  I  Trill  enter  it  again.  I  warn  you  once  more 
that  the  fever  has  turned  to  tv[)hus,  and  that  your  treatment  is  re- 
sponsible for  this  lamentable  change.  If  that  unhappy  lady  dies,  I 
will  give  my  testimony  in  a  court  of  justice  that  your  ignorance 
and  obstinacy  have  been  the  cause  of  her  death." 

Before  Mr.  Dawson  could  answer,  before  the  Count  could  leave  us, 
the  door  was  opened  from  the  sitting-room,  and  we  saw  Lady  Glyde 
on  the  threshold. 

"I  must  and  tcill  come  in,"  she  said,  with  extraordinary  firmness, 

Instead  of  stopping  her,  the  Count  moved  into  the  sitting-room, 
and  made  way  for  her  to  go  in.  On  all  other  occasions  he  was  the 
last  man  m  the  world  to  forget  any  thing,  but,  in  the  surprise  of  the 
moment,  he  apparently  forgot  the  danger  of  infection  from  typhus, 
and  the  urgent  necessity  of  forcing  Lady  Glyde  to  take  proper  care 
of  herself. 

To  my  astonishment,  Mr.  Dawson  showed  more  presence  of  mind. 
He  stoppea  her  ladyship  at  the  first  step  she  took  toward  the  bed- 
side. ''  I  am  sincerely  sorry,  I  am  sincerely  grieved,"  he  said.  "  The 
fever  may,  J  fear,  be  infectious.  Until  I  am  certain  that  it  is  not,  I 
entreat  you  to  keep  out  of  the  room." 

She  struggled  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly  dropped  her  arms  and 
sank  forward.  She  had  fainted.  The  Countess  and  I  took  her  from 
the  doctor,  and  earned  her  into  her  own  room.  The  Count  pre- 
ceded us,  and  waited  in  the  passage  till  I  came  out  and  told  him 
that  we  had  recovered  her  from  the  swoon. 

I  went  batK  to  the  doctor  to  tell  him,  by  Lady  Glyde's  desire,  that 
she  insisted  on  speaking  to  him  immediately.  He  withdrew  at  once, 
to  quiet  hei  ladyship's  agitation,  and  to  assure  her  of  the  physician's 
arrival  m  tne  course  of  a  few  hours.  Those  hours  passed  very  slow- 
ly. Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  were  together  down  stairs,  and  sent 
up,  from  time  to  time,  to  make  their  inquiries.  At  last,  between  five 
and  six  o'clock,  to  our  great  relief,  the  physician  came. 

He  was  a  younger  man  than  Mr.  Dawson,  very  serious,  and  very 
decided.  What  he  thought  of  the  previous  treatment  I  can  not 
say ;  but  it  struck  me  as  curious  that  he  put  many  more  questions 
to  myself  and  to  Mrs.  Rubelle  than  he  put  to  the  doctor,  and  that 
he  did  not  appear  to  listen  with  much  interest  to  what  Mr.  Daw- 
son said  while  he  was  examining  Mr.  Dawson's  patient.  I  began 
to  suspect,  from  what  I  observed  in  this  way,  that  the  Count  had 
been  right  about  the  illness  all  the  way  through ;  and  I  was  nat- 


328  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

iinilly  confirmed  in  that  idea  when  Mr.  Dawson,  after  some  little 
delay,  asked  the  one  important  question  which  the  London  doctor 
had  been  sent  for  to  set  at  rest. 

''  What  is  your  opinion  of  the  fever  V  he  inquired. 

''  Typhus,"  replied  the  physician,  "  Typhus  fever,  beyond  all 
doubf." 

That  quiet  foreign  person,  Mrs.  Rubelle,  crossed  her  thin,  brown 
hands  in  front  of  her,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  very  significant 
smile.  The  Count  himself  could  hardly  have  appeared  more  grati- 
fied if  he  had  been  present  in  the  room,  and  had  heard  the  confir- 
mation of  his  own  opinion. 

After  giving  us  some  useful  directions  about  the  management  of 
tlie  patient,  and  mentioning  that  he  would  come  again  in  five  days' 
time,  the  physician  withdrew  to  consult  in  private  with  Mr.  Daw- 
son. He  would  ofier  no  opinion  on  Miss  Halcombe's  chances  of 
recovery :  he  said  it  was  impossible,  at  that  stage  of  the  illness,  to 
pronounce  one  way  or  the  other. 

The  five  days  passed  anxiously. 

Countess  Fosco  and  myself  took  it  by  turns  to  relieve  Mrs.  Ru- 
])elle,  Miss  Halcombe's  condition  growing  worse  and  worse,  and 
requiring  our  utmost  care  and  attention.  It  was  a  terribly  trying 
time.  Lady  Glyde  (supported,  as  Mr.  Dawson  said,  by  the  constant 
strain  of  her  suspense  on  her  sister's  account)  rallied  in  the  most  ex- 
traordinary manner,  and  showed  a  firmness  and  determination  for 
which  I  should  myself  never  have  given  her  credit.  She  insisted 
on  coming  into  tlie  sick-room  two  or  three  times  every  day,  to  look 
.'it  Miss  Halcombe  with  her  own  eyes,  promising  not  to  go  too  close 
to  the  bed,  if  the  doctor  would  consent  to  her  wishes  so  far.  Mr. 
Dawson  very  unwillingly  made  the  concession  required  of  liim ;  I 
think  he  saw  that  it  was  hopeless  to  dispute  with  her.  She  came 
in  every  day,  and  she  self-deny ingly  kept  her  promise.  I  felt  it  per- 
sonally so  distressing  (as  reminding  me  of  my  own  affliction  during 
my  Imsband's  last  illness)  to  see  how  she  suflfered  under  these  cir- 
cumstances, that  I  must  beg  not  to  dwell  on  this  part  of  the  subject 
any  longer.  It  is  more  agreeable  to  me  to  mention  that  no  fresh 
disputes  took  place  between  Mr.  Dawson  and  the  Count.  His  lord- 
ship made  all  his  inquiries  l:>y  deputy,  and  remained  continually  in 
company  with  Sir  Pcrcival  down  stairs. 

On  the  fifth  day  the  physician  came  again,  and  gave  us  a  little 
hope.  He  said  tlie  tenth  day  from  the  first  appearance  of  the  ty- 
phus would  probably  decide  the  result  of  the  illness,  and  he  ar- 
ranged for  his  third  visit  to  take  place  on  that  date.  The  interval 
passed  as  before,  except  that  the  Count  went  to  Loudon  again,  one 
morning,  and  returned  at  night. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  329 

On  the  tenth  day  it  pleased  a  merciful  Providence  to  relieve  our 
household  from  all  further  anxiety  and  alarm.  The  physician  posi- 
tively assured  us  that  Miss  Halcombe  was  out  of  danger.  "  She 
wants  no  doctor  now — all  she  requires  is  careful  watching  and  nurs- 
ing, for  some  time  to  come ;  and  that  I  see  she  has."  Those  were 
his  own  words.  That  evening  I  read  my  husband's  touching  ser- 
mon on  Recovery  from  Sickness  with  more  happiness  and  advan- 
tage (in  a  spiritual  point  of  view)  than  I  ever  remember  to  have 
derived  from  it  before. 

The  effect  of  the  good  news  on  poor  Lady  Glyde  was,  I  grieve  to 
say,  quite  overpowering.  She  was  too  weak  to  bear  the  violent  re- 
action, and  in  another  day  or  two  she  sank  into  a  state  of  debility 
and  depression  which  obliged  her  to  keep  her  room.  Rest  and 
quiet,  and  change  of  air  afterward,  were  the  best  remedies  which 
Mr.  Dawson  could  suggest  for  her  benefit.  It  was  fortunate  that 
matters  were  no  worse,  for,  on  the  very  day  after  she  took  to  her 
room,  the  Count  and  the  doctor  had  another  disagreement,  and  this 
time  the  dispute  between  them  was  of  so  serious  a  nature  that  Mr. 
Dawson  left  the  house, 

I  was  not  present  at  the  time,  but  I  understood  that  the  subject 
of  dispute  was  the  amount  of  nourishment  which  it  was  necessary 
to  give  to  assist  Miss  Halcombe's  convalescence,  after  the  exhaustion 
of  the  fever.  Mr.  Dawson,  now  that  his  patient  was  safe,  was  less 
inclined  than  ever  to  submit  to  unprofessional  interference,  and  the 
Count  (I  can  not  imagine  why)  lost  ail  the  self-control  which  he 
had  so  judiciously  preserved  on  former  occasions,  and  taunted  the 
doctor,  over  and  over  again,  with  his  mistake  about  the  fever,  when 
it  changed  to  ty]Dhus.  The  unfortunate  affair  ended  in  Mr.  Daw- 
son's appealing  to  Sir  Percival,  and  threatening  (now  that  he  could 
leave  without  al^solute  danger  to  Miss  Halcombe)  to  withdraw  fi-om 
his  attendance  at  Blackwater  Park  if  the  Count's  interference  was 
not  i:)eremptorily  suppressed  from  that  moment.  Sir  Percival's  re- 
ply (though  not  designedly  uncivil)  had  only  resulted  in  making 
matters  worse,  and  Mr.  Dawson  had  thereupon  withdrawn  from  the 
house,  in  a  state  of  extreme  indignation  at  Count  Fosco's  usage  of 
him,  and  had  sent  in  his  bill  the  next  morning. 

We  were  now,  therefore,  left  without  the  attendance  of  a  medical 
man.  Although  there  was  no  actual  necessity  for  another  doctor — 
nursing  and  watching  being,  as  the  physician  had  observed,  all  that 
iHiss  Halcombe  required — I  should  still,  if  my  authority  had  been 
consulted,  have  obtained  professional  assistance,  from  some  other 
quarter,  for  form's  sake. 

The  matter  did  not  seem  to  strike  Sir  Percival  in  that  light.  He 
said  it  would  be  time  enough  to  send  for  another  doctor  if  ]^Iiss 
Halcombe  showed  any  signs  of  a  relapse.     In  the  mean  while  we 


330  'IIFI-:    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

had  tlic  Count  to  consult  in  any  minor  diflSculty,  and  we  need  not 
unnecessarily  disturb  our  jjatient,  in  her  present  weak  and  nervous 
condition,  by  the  presence  of  a  stranger  at  her  bedside.  There  was 
much  that  was  reasonable,  no  douljt,  in  these  considerations,  but 
they  left  me  a  little  anxious,  nevertheless.  Nor  was  I  quite  satis- 
fied, in  my  own  mind,  of  the  propriety  of  our  concealinp^  the  doctor's 
absence,  as  we  did,  from  Lady  Glydc.  It  was  a  merciful  deception, 
I  admit — for  she  was  in  no  state  to  bear  any  fresh  anxieties.  But 
still  it  was  a  deception,  and,  as  such,  to  a  person  of  my  principles, 
at  best  a  doubtful  proceeding. 

A  second  perplexing  circumstance  which  happened  on  the  same 
day,  and  which  took  me  completely  by  surprise,  added  greatly  to 
the  sense  of  uneasiness  that  was  now  weighing  on  my  mind. 

I  was  sent  for  to  see  Sir  Percival  in  the  library.  The  Count,  who 
was  with  him  when  I  went  in,  immediately  rose  and  left  us  alone 
together.  Sir  Percival  civilly  asked  me  to  take  a  seat,  and  then,  to 
my  great  astonishment,  addressed  me  in  these  terms : 

"  I  want  to  speak  to  you,  Mrs.  Michelson,  about  a  matter  which  I 
decided  on  some  time  ago,  and  which  I  should  have  mentioned  be- 
fore but  for  the  sickness  and  trouble  in  the  house.  In  plain  words, 
I  have  reasons  for  wishing  to  break  up  my  establishment  immedi- 
ately at  this  place — leaving  you  in  charge,  of  course,  as  usual.  As 
soon  as  Lady  Glyde  and  Miss  Halcombe  can  travel,  they  must  both 
have  change  of  air.  My  friends.  Count  Fosco  and  the  Countess,  will 
leave  us,  before  that  time,  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  of  London. 
And  I  have  reasons  for  not  opening  the  house  to  any  more  com- 
pany, with  a  view  to  economizing  as  carefully  as  I  can.  I  don't 
blame  you,  but  my  expenses  here  are  a  great  deal  too  heavy.  In 
short,  I  shall  sell  the  horses  and  get  rid  of  all  the  servants  at  once. 
I  never  do  things  by  halves,  as  you  know,  and  I  mean  to  have  the 
house  clear  of  a  pack  of  useless  people  by  this  time  to-morrow." 

I  listened  to  him,  perfectly  aghast  with  astonishment. 

"  Do  you  mean.  Sir  Percival,  that  I  am  to  dismiss  the  indoor 
servants  under  my  charge  without  the  usual  month's  warning  ?" 
I  asked. 

"  Certainly,  I  do.  We  may  all  be  out  of  the  house  before  another 
month,  and  I  am  not  going  to  leave  the  servants  here  in  idleness, 
with  no  master  to  wait  on." 

"  Who  is  to  do  the  cooking.  Sir  Percival,  while  you  are  still  stay- 
ing here  ?" 

''  Margaret  Porcher  can  roast  and  boil — keep  her.  What  do  I 
want  with  a  cook,  if  I  don't  mean  to  give  any  dinner-parties  ?" 

nee 
ant  in  the  house,  Sir  Percival — " 


THE    WOiTAX    IX    AVIIITE.  331 

"  Keep  licr,  I  tell  you,  and  have  a  woman  in  from  the  village  to  do  ^ 
the  cleaning  and  go  away  again.  My  weekly  expenses  must  and 
shall  he  lowered  immediately.  I  don't  send  for  you  to  make  objec- 
tions, JLts.  Michelson — I  send  for  you  to  carry  out  my  plans  of  econ- 
omy. Dismiss  the  whole  lazy  pack  of  indoor  servants  to-morrow, 
except  Porcher.  She  is  as  strong  as  a  horse,  and  we'll  make  her 
work  like  a  horse." 

''  You  will  excuse  me  for  reminding  you,  Sir  Percival,  that  if  the 
servants  go  to-morrow  they  must  have  a  month's  wages  in  lieu  of  a 
month's  warning.'' 

''  Let  them  I  A  month's  wages  saves  a  month's  waste  and  glut- 
tony in  the  servants'-hall." 

This  last  remark  conveyed  an  aspersion  of  the  most  oifensive  kind 
on  my  management.  I  had  too  much  self-respect  to  defend  myself 
under  so  gross  an  imputation.  Christian  consideration  for  the  help- 
less position  of  Miss  Halcombe  and  Lady  Glyde,  and  for  the  serious 
inconvenience  which  my  sudden  absence  might  inflict  on  them, 
alone  prevented  me  from  resigning  my  situation  on  the  spot.  I 
rose  immediately.  It  would  have  lowered  me  in  my  own  estima- 
tion to  have  permitted  the  interview  to  continue  a  moment  longer. 

"  After  that  last  remark.  Sir  Percival,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say. 
Your  directions  shall  be  attended  to."  Pronouncing  those  words, 
I  bowed  my  head  with  the  most  distant  respect,  and  went  out  of 
the  room. 

The  next  day  the  servants  left  in  a  body.  Sir  Percival  himself 
dismissed  the  grooms  and  stablemen,  sending  them,  with  all  the 
horses  but  one,  to  London.  Of  the  whole  domestic  establishment, 
indoors  and  out,  there  now  remained  only  myself,  Margaret  Porcher, 
and  the  gardener,  this  last  living  in  his  own  cottage,  and  being 
wanted  to  take  care  of  the  one  horse  that  remained  in  the  stables. 

With  the  house  left  in  this  strange  and  lonely  condition ;  with 
the  mistress  of  it  ill  in  her  room  ;  with  Miss  Halcombe  still  as  help- 
less as  a  child ;  and  with  the  doctor's  attendance  withdrawn  from 
us  in  enmity — it  was  surely  not  unnatural  that  my  spirits  should 
sink,  and  my  customary  composure  be  very  hard  to  maintain.  My 
mind  was  ill  at  ease.  I  wished  the  poor  ladies  both  well  again,  and 
I  wished  myself  away  from  Blackwater  Park. 

II. 
The  next  event  that  occurred  was  of  so  singular  a  nature  that  it 
might  have  caused  me  a  feeling  of  superstitious  surprise,  if  my  mind 
had  not  been  fortified  by  principle  against  any  pagan  weakness  of 
that  sort.  The  uneasy  sense  of  something  wrong  in  :\ie  flimily 
which  had  made  me  wish  myself  away  from  Blackwater  Park  waa 
actually  followed,  strange  to  say,  by  my  departure  fi-om  the  house. 


332  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

It  is  true  tliat  my  absence  was  for  a  temporary  period  only,  but  the 
coincidence  was,  in  my  opinion,  not  the  less  remarkable  on  that 
account. 

My  departure  took  place  under  the  following  circumstances : 

A  day  or  two  after  the  servants  all  left,  I  was  again  sent  for  to  see 
Sir  Percival.  The  undeserved  slur  which  he  had  cast  on  my  man- 
agement of  the  household  did  not,  I  am  happy  to  say,  prevent  me 
from  returning  good  for  evil  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  by  complying 
with  his  request  as  readily  and  respectfully  as  ever.  It  cost  me  a 
struggle  with  that  fallen  nature  which  we  all  share  in  common,  be- 
fore I  could  suppress  my  feelings.  Being  accustomed  to  self-disci- 
pline, I  accomplished  the  sacrifice. 

I  found  Sir  Percival  and  Count  Fosco  sitting  together,  again. 
On  this  occasion  his  lordship  remained  present  at  the  interview,  and 
assisted  in  the  development  of  Sir  PcrcivaFs  views. 

The  subject  to  Avhich  they  now  requested  my  attention  related  to 
the  healthy  change  of  air  by  which  we  all  hoped  that  Miss  Halcombe 
and  Lady  Glyde  might  soon  be  enabled  to  profit.  Sir  Percival  men- 
tioned that  both  the  ladies  would  probably  pass  the  autumn  (by  in- 
vitation of  Frederick  Fairlie,  Esquire)  at  Limmeridge  House,  Cum- 
berland. But  before  they  went  there,  it  was  his  opinion,  confirmed 
by  Count  Fosco  (who  here  took  up  the  conversation  and  continued 
it  to  the  end),  that  they  would  benefit  by  a  short  residence  first  in 
the  genial  climate  of  Torquay.  The  great  object,  therefore,  was  to 
engage  lodgings  at  that  place,  affording  all  the  comforts  and  advan- 
tages of  which  they  stood  in  need ;  and  the  great  clifiBculty  was  to 
find  an  experienced  person  capable  of  choosing  the  sort  of  residence 
Avhich  they  wanted.  In  this  emergency  the  Count  begged  to  in- 
quire, on  Sir  Percival's  behalf,  whether  I  would  ol»ject  to  give  the 
ladies  the  benefit  of  my  assistance,  by  proceeding  myself  to  Torquay 
in  their  interests. 

It  was  impossible  for  a  person  in  my  situation  to  meet  any  propo- 
sal made  in  these  terms  with  a  positive  objection. 

I  could  only  venture  to  represent  the  serious  inconvenience  of  my 
leaving  Black  water  Park  in  the  extraordinaiy  absence  of  all  the  in- 
door servants,  with  the  one  exception  of  Margaret  Porcher.  But  Sir 
Percival  and  his  lordship  declared  that  they  were  both  willing  to 
put  up  with  inconvenience  for  the  sake  of  the  invalids.  I  next  re- 
spectfully suggested  writing  to  an  agent  at  Torquay ;  but  I  was  met 
here  by  being  reminded  of  the  imprudence  of  taking  lodgings  with- 
out first  seeing  them.  I  was  also  informed  that  the  Countess  (who 
would  otherwise  have  gone  to  Devonshire  herself)  could  not,  in 
Lady  Glyde's  present  condition,  leave  her  niece,  and  that  Sir  Perci- 
val and  the  Count  had  business  to  transact  together  which  would 
oblige  them  to  remain  at  Blackwater  Park.     In  short,  it  was  clearly 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  333 

sliown  me  that  if  I  did  not  undertake  the  errand  no  one  else  could 
be  trusted  with  it.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  could  onh^  inform 
Sir  Percival  that  my  services  were  at  the  disposal  of  Miss  Ilalcombe 
and  Lady  Glyde. 

It  was  thereupon  arranged  that  I  should  leave  the  next  morning ; 
that  I  should  occupy  ono  or  two  days  in  examining  all  the  most 
convenient  houses  in  Torquay ;  and  that  I  should  return,  with  my 
report,  as  soon  as  I  conveniently  could.  A  memorandum  was  writ- 
ten for  me  by  his  lordship,  stating  the  requisites  which  the  place  I 
was  sent  to  take  must  be  found  to  possess  ;  and  a  note  of  the  pe- 
cuniary limit  assigned  to  me  was  added  by  Sir  Percival. 

My  oT/n  idea,  on  reading  over  these  instructions,  was,  that  no  such  * 
residence  as  I  saw  described  could  be  found  at  any  watering-place 
in  i^ngland,  and  that,  even  if  it  could  by  chance  be  discovered,  it 
would  certainly  not  be  parted  with  for  any  period  on  such  terms  as 
I  vas  permitted  to  offer.  I  hinted  at  these  difficulties  to  both  the 
gcjeitlemen,  but  Sir  Percival  (who  undertook  to  answer  me)  did  not 
appear  to  feel  them.  It  was  not  for  me  to  dispute  the  question.  I 
Said  no  more,  but  I  felt  a  very  strong  conviction  that  the  business 
■yii  which  I  w^as  sent  away  was  so  beset  by  difficulties  that  my  er- 
rand was  almost  hopeless  at  starting. 

Before  I  left  I  took  care  to  satisfy  myself  that  Miss  Halcombe  was 
going  on  favorably. 

There  was  a  painful  expression  of  anxiety  in  her  face  which  made 
me  fear  that  her  mind,  on  first  recovering  itself,  was  not  at  ease. 
But  she  was  certainly  strengthening  more  rapidly  than  I  could  have 
ventured  to  anticipate,  and  she  was  able  to  send  kind  messages  to 
Lady  Glyde,  saying  that  she  was  fast  getting  well,  and  entreating 
h  er  ladyship  not  to  exert  herself  again  too  soon.  I  left  her  in  charge 
Oi"  Mrs.  Rubelle,  who  was  still  as  quietly  independent  of  every  one 
else  in  the  house  as  ever.  When  I  knocked  at  Lady  Glyde's  door, 
before  going  away,  I  was  told  that  she  was  still  sadly  weak  and  de- 
pressed, my  informant  being  the  Countess,  who  was  then  keeping 
her  company  in  her  room.  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  were  walk- 
ing on  the  road  to  the  lodge,  as  I  was  driven  by  in  the.  chaise,  I 
bowed  to  them,  and  quitted  the  house,  with  not  a  living  soul  left  in 
the  servant's  offices  but  Margaret  Porcher. 

Every  one  must  feel,  what  I  have  felt  myself  since  that  time,  that 
these  circumstances  were  more  than  unusual — they  were  almost  sus- 
picious.    Let  me,  however,  say  again,  that  it  was  impossible  for  me,  <- 
in  my  dependent  position,  to  act  otherwise  than  I  did. 

The  result  of  my  errand  at  Torquay  was  exactly  what  I  had  fore-1 
seen.     No  such  lodgings  as  I  was  instructed  to  take  could  be  found 
in  the  whole  place,  and  the  terms  I  was  permitted  to  give  were  much 
too  lovi  for  the  purpose,  even  if  I  had  been  able  to  discover  what  I 


334  THE    -WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

-svjiTitcvl.  I  accordingly  returned  to  Blackwater  Park,  and  informed 
Sir  Pcrcival,  who  met  me  at  the  door,  that  my  journey  had  been 
taken  in  vain.  He  seemed  too  much  occupied  with  some  other  sub- 
ject to  care  about  the  failure  of  my  errand,  and  his  first  words  in- 
formed me  that  even  in  the  short  time  of  my  absence  another  re- 
markable change  had  taken  place  in  the  house.  ' 

The  Count  and  Countess  Fosco  had  lefl  Blackwater  Park  for  their 
new  residence  in  St.  John's  Wood. 

I  was  not  made  aware  of  the  motive  for  this  sudden  departure — I 
was  only  told  that  the  Count  had  been  very  particular  in  leaving  his 
kind  compliments  to  me.  When  I  ventured  on  asking  Sir  Percival 
whether  Lady  Glyde  had  any  one  to  attend  to  her  comforts  in  the 
absence  of  the  Countess,  he  replied  that  she  had  Margaret  Porcher 
to  wait  on  her,  and  he  added  that  a  woman  from  the  village  had 
])cen  sent  for  to  do  the  work  down  stairs. 

The  answer  really  shocked  me — there  was  such  a  glaring  impro- 
priety in  permitting  an  under-house-maid  to  fill  the  place  of  confi- 
dential attendant  on  Lady  Glyde.  I  went  up  stairs  at  once,  and  met 
Margaret  on  the  bedroom-landing.  Her  services  had  not  been  re- 
quired (naturally  enough),  her  mistress  having  sufficiently  recovered 
that  morning  to  be  able  to  leave  her  bed.  I  asked,  next,  after  Miss 
Halcombe,  but  I  was  answered  in  a  slouching,  sulky  way,  which  left 
me  no  wiser  than  I  was  before.  I  did  not  choose  to  repeat  the  ques- 
tion, and  perhaps  provoke  an  impertinent  reply.  It  was  in  every 
respect  more  becoming,  to  a  person  in  my  position,  to  present  myself 
immediately  in  Lady  Glyde's  room. 

I  found  that  her  ladyship  had  certainly  gained  in  health  during 
the  last  few  days.  Although  still  sadly  weak  and  nervous,  she  was 
able  to  get  up  without  assistance,  and  to  walk  slowly  about  her  room, 
feeling  no  worse  effect  from  the  exertion  than  a  slight  sensation  of 
fatigue.  She  had  been  made  a  little  anxious  that  morning  about 
Miss  Halcombe,  througli  having  received  no  new^s  of  her  from  any 
one.  I  thought  this  seemed  to  imply  a  blamable  want  of  attention 
on  the  part  of  ]VIrs.  Rubelle  ;  but  I  said  nothing,  and  remained  with 
Lady  Glyde,  to  assist  her  to  dress.  AVhcn  she  was  ready,  we  both 
left  the  room  together  to  go  to  Miss  Halcombe. 

AVe  wTre  stopped  in  the  passage  by  the  appearance  of  Sir  PercivaL 
He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  purposely  waiting  there  to  see  us. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?''  he  said  to  Lady  Glyde. 

"  To  Marian's  room,"  she  answered. 

"  It  may  spare  you  a  disappointment,"  remarked  Sir  Percival,  "  if 
I  tell  you  at  once  that  you  will  not  find  her  there." 

"  Not  find  her  there  !" 

"•  No.  She  left  the  house  yesterday  morning  with  Fosco  and  his 
wife." 


THE    WOMxVX   IN    WHITE.  335 

Lady  Glyde  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  the  surprise  of  this 
extraordinary  statement.  She  turned  fearfully  pale,  and  leaned 
back  against  the  wall,  looking  at  her  husband  in  dead  silence. 

I  was  so  astonished  myself  that  I  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  I 
asked  Sir  Percival  if  he  really  meant  that  Miss  Halcombe  had  left 
Blackwater  Park. 

"  I  certainly  mean  it,"  he  answered. 

"  In  her  state,  Sir  Percival !  Without  mentioning  her  intentions 
to  Lady  Glyde  I" 

Before  he  could  reply,  her  ladyship  recovered  herself  a  little,  and 
spoke. 

'•  Impossible  !"  she  cried  out,  in  a  loud,  frightened  manner,  taking 
a  step  or  two  forward  from  the  wall.  "  Where  was  the  doctor  ? 
where  was  Mr.  Dawson  when  Marian  went  away  ?" 

"Mr.  Dawson  wasn't  wanted,  and  wasn't  here,"  said  Sir  Percival. 
"  He  left  of  his  own  accord,  which  is  enough  of  itself  to  show  that 
she  was  strong  enough  to  travel.  How  you  stare !  If  you  don't 
believe  she  has  gone,  look  for  yourself  Open  her  room  door,  and 
all  the  other  room  doors,  if  you  Uke." 

She  took  him  at  his  word,  and  I  followed  her.  There  was  no  one 
in  Miss  Halcombe's  room  but  Margaret  Porcher,  who  was  busy  set- 
ting it  to  rights.  There  was  no  one  in  the  spare  rooms,  or  the  dress- 
ing-rooms, when  we  looked  into  them  afterward.  Sir  Percival  still 
waited  for  us  in  the  passage.  As  we  were  leaving  the  last  room 
that  we  had  examined.  Lady  Glyde  whispered,  "Don't  go,  Mrs. 
Michelson  I  don't  leave  me,  for  God  sake  1"  Before  I  could  say  any 
thing  in  return,  she  was  out  again  in  the  passage,  speaking  to  her 
husband. 

"  What  does  it  mean.  Sir  Percival  ?  I  insist — I  beg  and  pray  you 
will  tell  me  what  it  means !" 

"  It  means,"  he  answered,  "  that  ]\Iiss  Halcombe  was  strong  enougli 
yesterday  mommg  to  sit  up  and  be  dressed,  and  that  she  insisted  on 
taking  advantage  of  Fosco's  going  to  London,  to  go  there  too." 

"  To  London !" 

"  Yes — on  her  way  to  Limmeridge." 

Lady  Glyde  turned,  and  appealed  to  me. 

"  You  saw  'Miss  Halcombe  last,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me  plainly,  Mrs. 
Michelson,  did  you  think  she  looked  fit  to  travel  ?" 

"  Not  in  my  opinion,  your  ladyship." 

Sir  Percival,  on  his  side,  instantly  turned,  and  appealed  to  me  also. 

"  Before  you  went  away,"  he  said,  "  did  you,  or  did  you  not,  tell 
the  nurse  that  Miss  Halcombe  looked  much  stronger  and  better?" 

"  I  certainly  made  the  remark.  Sir  Percival." 

He  addressed  her  ladyship  again,  the  moment  I  offered  that  reply. 

"  Set  one  of  Mrs.  Michclson's  opinions  faiily  against  the  other,"  he 


n.'iO  TIIK    WOMAN    IN     WHITE. 

said,  "  and  try  to  l)e  reasonable  about  a  perfectly  plain  matter.  If 
she  had  not  l)ecn  well  enough  to  be  moved,  do  you  think  we  should 
any  of  us  have  risked  letting  her  go  ?  She  has  got  three  competent 
people  to  look  after  her — Fosco  and  your  aunt,  and  Mrs.  Rubelle, 
who  went  away  with  them  expressly  for  that  purpose.  They  took 
a  whole  carriage  yesterday,  and  made  a  bed  for  her  on  the  seat,  in 
case  she  felt  tired.  To-day  Fosco  and  Mrs.  Rubelle  go  on  with  her 
themselves  to  Cumberland — " 

''Why  does  Marian  go  to  Limmeridge,  and  leave  me  here  by 
myself?"  said  her  ladyship,  interrupting  Sir  Percival. 

"  Because  your  uncle  won't  receive  you  till  he  has  seen  your  sister 
first,"  he  replied.  "  Have  you  forgotten  the  letter  he  wrote  to  her, 
at  the  l)eginning  of  her  illness  ?  It  was  shown  to  you  ;  you  read  it 
yourself;  and  you  ought  to  remember  it." 

"I  do  remember  it." 

"  If  you  do,  why  should  you  be  surprised  at  her  leaving  you  ? 
You  want  to  be  back  at  Limmeridge,  and  she  has  gone  there  to  get 
your  uncle's  leave  for  you,  on  his  own  terms." 

Poor  Lady  Glyde's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  Marian  never  left  me  before,"  she  said,  "  without  bidding  me 
good-bye." 

"  She  would  have  bid  you  good-bye  this  time,"  returned  Sir  Per- 
civ^al,  "  if  she  had  not  been  afraid  of  herself  and  of  you.  She  knew 
you  would  try  to  stop  her;  she  knew  you  would  distress  her  by 
crying.  Do  you  want  to  make  any  more  objections  ?  If  you  do, 
you  must  come  down  stairs  and  ask  questions  in  the  dining-room. 
These  worries  upset  me.     I  want  a  glass  of  wine." 

He  left  us  suddenly. 

His  manner  all  through  this  strange  conversation  had  been  very 
unlike  what  it  usually  was.  He  seemed  to  be  almost  as  nervous  and 
fluttered,  every  now  and  then,  as  his  lady  herself.  I  should  never 
have  supposed  that  his  health  had  been  so  delicate,  or  his  com- 
posure so  easy  to  upset. 

I  tried  to  prevail  on  Lady  Glyde  to  go  back  to  her  room ;  but  it 
was  useless.  She  stopped  in  the  passage,  with  the  look  of  a  woman 
whose  mind  was  panic-stricken  : 

"  Something  has  happened  to  my  sister !"  she  said. 

"Remember,  my  lady,  what  surj^rising  energy  there  is  in  Miss 
Ilalcombe,"  I  suggested.  "  She  might  well  make  an  effort  which 
other  ladies,  in  her  situation,  would  be  unfit  for.  I  hope  and  be- 
lieve there  is  nothing  wrong — I  do  indeed." 

'•  I  must  follow  Marian  I"  said  her  ladyship,  with  the  same  panic- 
stricken  look.  "  I  must  go  where  she  has  gone ;  I  must  see  that 
she  is  alive  and  well  with  my  own  eyes.  Come !  come  down  with 
mo  to  Sir  Percival." 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  337 

I  hesitated,  fearing  that  my  presence  might  be  considered  an 
intrusion.  I  attempted  to  represent  this  to  her  ladyship ;  but  she 
was  deaf  to  me.  She  held  my  arm  fast  enough  to  force  me  to  go 
down  stairs  with  her,  and  she  still  clung  to  me  with  all  the  little 
strength  she  had  at  the  moment  when  I  opened  the  dining-room 
door. 

Sir  Percival  was  sitting  at  the  table  with  a  decanter  of  "«dne  be- 
fore him.  He  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips  as  we  went  in,  and  drained 
it  at  a  draught.  Seeing  that  he  looked  at  me  angrily  when  he  put 
it  down  again,  I  attempted  to  make  some  apology  for  my  accidental 
presence  in  the  room. 

"  Do  you  suj)pose  there  are  any  secrets  going  on  here  V  he  broke 
out,  suddenly ;  "  there  are  none — there  is  nothing  underhand,  noth- 
ing kept  from  you  or  from  any  one."  After  speaking  those  strange 
words,  loudly  and  sternly,  he  filled  himself  another  glass  of  wine,  and 
asked  Lady  Glyde  what  she  wanted  of  him. 

"If  my  sister  is  fit  to  travel,  I  am  fit  to  travel,"  said  her  ladyship, 
with  more  firmness  than  she  had  yet  sho^^Ti.  "  I  come  to  beg  you 
will  make  allowances  for  my  anxiety  about  Marian,  and  let  me  fol- 
low her  at  once  by  the  afternoon  train." 

"  You  must  wait  till  to-morrow,"  replied  Sir  Percival,  "  and  then, 
if  you  don't  hear  to  the  contrary,  you  can  go,  I  don't  suppose  you 
are  at  all  likely  to  hear  to  the  contrary,  so  I  shall  write  to  Fosco  by 
to-night's  post.'' 

He  said  those  last  words  holding  his  glass  up  to  the  light,  and 
looking  at  the  wine  in  it,  instead  of  at  Lady  Glyde.  Indeed,  he 
never  once  looked  at  her  throughout  the  conversation.  Such  a  sin- 
gular want  of  good-breeding  in  a  gentleman  of  his  rank  impressed 
me,  I  o\NTi,  veiy  painfully. 

"  Why  should  you  write  to  Count  Fosco  ?''  she  asked,  in  extreme 
surprise. 

"  To  tell  him  to  expect  you  by  the  midday  train,"  said  Sir  Perci- 
val. "  He  will  meet  you  at  the  station,  when  you  get  to  London, 
and  take  you  on  to  sleep  at  your  aunt's,  in  St.  John's  Wood." 

Lady  Glyde's  hand  began  to  tremble  violently  round  my  arm — 
why,  I  could  not  imagine. 

''  There  is  no  necessity  for  Count  Fosco  to  meet  me,"  she  said.  "  I 
would  rather  not  stay  in  London  to  sleep." 

"  You  must.  You  can't  take  the  whole  journey  to  Cumberland  in 
one  day.  You  must  rest  a  night  in  London,  and  I  don't  choose  you 
to  go  by  yourself  to  a  hotel.  Fosco  made  the  ofi"er  to  your  uncle  to 
give  you  house-room  on  the  way  down,  and  your  uncle  has  accepted 
it.  Here  I  here  is  a  letter  from  him,  addressed  to  yourself  I  ought 
to  have  sent  it  up  this  morning,  Init  I  forgot.  Read  it,  and  see  what 
Mr.  Fairlie  himself  says  to  you." 

15 


338  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Lady  Glyde  looked  at  tlic  letter  for  a  moment,  and  then  i)laced  it 
in  my  hantls. 

"Kead  it,"  slio  said,  faintlj^  "I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter 
with  me.     I  can't  read  it  myself." 

It  was  a  note  of  only  four  lines — so  short  and  so  careless  that  it 
quite  struck  me.  If  I  remember  correctly,  it  contained  no  more 
than  these  words : 

''  Dearest  Laura — Please  come  whenever  you  like.  Break  the  jour- 
ney by  sleeping  at  your  aunt's  house.  Grieved  to  hear  of  dear  Ma- 
rian's illness.     Affectionately  yours,  Frederick  Fairlie." 

"  I  would  rather  not  go  there — I  would  rather  not  stay  a  night  in 
London,"  said  her  ladyship,  breaking  out  eagerly  with  those  words 
before  I  had  quite  done  reading  the  note,  short  as  it  was.  "  Don't 
■write  to  Count  Fosco  !     Pray,  pray  don't  write  to  him," 

Sir  Percival  filled  another  glass  from  the  decanter,  so  awkwardly 
that  he  upset  it,  and  spilled  all  the  wine  over  the  table.  "  My  sight 
seems  to  be  failing  me,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  in  an  odd,  muffled 
voice.  He  slowly  set  the  glass  up  again,  refilled  it,  and  drained  it 
once  more  at  a  draught.  I  began  to  fear,  from  his  look  and  manner, 
that  the  wine  was  getting  into  his  head. 

"  Pray,  don't  write  to  Count  Fosco !"  persisted  Lady  Glyde,  more 
earnestly  than  ever. 

"  Why  not,  I  should  like  to  know  ?"  cried  Sir  Percival,  with  a  sud- 
den burst  of  anger  that  startled  us  both.  "  Where  can  you  stay 
more  properly  in  London  than  at  the  j^lace  your  uncle  himself 
chooses  for  you — at  yom*  aunt's  house  ?     Ask  Mrs.  Michelson." 

The  arrangement  proposed  was  so  unquestionably  the  right  and 
the  proper  one  that  I  could  make  no  jDossible  objection  to  it.  Much 
as  I  sympathized  v.ith  Lady  Glyde  in  other  respects,  I  could  not  sym- 
pathize with  her  in  her  unjust  prejudices  against  Count  Fosco.  I 
never  before  met  with  any  lady  of  her  rank  and  station  who  was  so 
lamentably  narrow-minded  on  the  subject  of  foreigners.  Neither 
her  uncle's  note  nor  Sir  Percival's  increasing  impatience  seemed  to 
have  the  least  eflfect  on  her.  She  still  objected  to  staying  a  night  in 
London ;  she  still  implored  her  husband  not  to  write  to  the  Count. 

"  Drop  it !"  said  Sir  Percival,  rudely  turning  his  back  on  us.  "  If 
you  haven't  sense  enough  to  know  what  is  best  for  j'ourself,  other 
people  must  know  for  you.  The  arrangement  is  made,  and  there  is 
an  end  of  it.  You  are  only  wanted  to  do  what  Miss  Halcombe  has 
done  before  you — " 

"  Marian  ?"  repeated  her  ladyship,  in  a  bewildered  manner ;  "  Ma- 
rian slee})ing  in  Count  Fosco's  house  !" 

"Yes,  in  Count  Fosco's  house.  She  slept  there  last  night,  to 
break  the  journey.  And  you  are  to  follow  her  example,  and  do 
what  your  uncle  tells  you.     You  are  to  sleep  at  Fosco's  to-morrow 


THE    AVOMAN   IN    WHITE.  339 

night,  as  your  sister  did,  to  break  the  journey.  Don't  throw  too 
many  obstacles  in  my  way !  don't  make  me  repent  of  letting  you  go 
at  all !" 

He  started  to  his  feet,  and  suddenly  walked  out  into  the  veranda, 
through  the  open  glass  doors. 

"Will  your  ladyship  excuse  me,"  I  whispered,  "if  I  suggest  that 
we  had  l^etter  not  wait  here  till  Sir  Percival  comes  back  ?  I  am 
very  much  afraid  he  is  overexcited  with  w4ne." 

She  consented  to  leave  the  room,  in  a  weary,  absent  manner. 

As  soon  as  we  were  safe  up  stairs  again,  I  did  all  I  could  to  com- 
pose her  ladyship's  spiidts.  I  reminded  her  that  Mr.  Fairlie's  let- 
ters to  3Iiss  Halcombe  and  to  herself  did  certainly  sanction,  and  even 
render  necessary,  sooner  or  later,  the  couree  that  had  been  taken. 
She  agreed  to  this,  and  even  admitted,  of  her  own  accord,  that  both 
letters  were  strictly  in  character  with  her  uncle's  peculiar  disposi- 
tion— but  her  fears  about  ]Miss  Halcombe,  and  her  unaccountable 
dread  of  sleeping  at  the  Count's  house  in  London,  still  remained  un- 
shaken, in  spite  of  every  consideration  that  I  could  urge.  I  thought 
it  my  duty  to  jJi'otest  against  Lady  Glyde's  unfavorable  02)inion  of 
his  lordship,  and  I  did  so,  with  becoming  forbearance  and  respect. 

"  Your  ladyship  will  pardon  my  freedom,"  I  remarked,  in  con- 
clusion ;  "  but  it  is  said,  '  by  their  ti-uits  ye  shall  know  them.'  I  am 
sure  the  Count's  constant  kindness  and  constant  attention  from  the 
very  beginning  of  Miss  Halcombe's  illness  merit  om-  best  confidence 
and  esteem.  Even  his  lordship's  serious  misunderstanding  with  Mr. 
Dawson  was  entirely  attributable  to  his  anxiety  on  Miss  Halcoml^e's 
account." 

"  What  misunderstanding  ?''  inc^uired  her  ladyship,  with  a  look 
of  sudden  interest. 

I  related  the  unhappy  circumstances  under  which  Mr.  Dawson  had 
withdrawn  his  attendance — mentioning  them  all  the  more  readily 
because  I  disapproved  of  Sir  Percival's  continuing  to  conceal  what 
had  happened  (as  he  had  done  in  my  presence)  from  the  knowledge 
of  Lady  Glyde. 

Her  ladyship  started  up  %vith  every  appearance  of  being  addi- 
tionally agitated  and  alarmed  by  what  I  had  told  her. 

"  Worse !  worse  than  I  thought !''  she  said,  walking  about  the 
room  in  a  bewildered  manner.  "  The  Count  knew  Mr.  Dawson 
would  never  consent  to  Marian's  taking  a  journey — he  purposely  in- 
sulted the  doctor,  to  get  him  out  of  the  house." 

"  Oh,  my  lady  I  my  lady  !"  I  remonstrated. 

"  Mrs.  Michelson  !"  she  went  on,  vehemently,  "  no  words  that  ever 
were  spoken  vdW  persuade  me  that  my  sister  is  in  that  man's  power 
and  in  that  man's  house  with  her  own  consent.  My  horror  of  him 
is  such  that  nothing  Sir  Percival  could  sav,  and  no  letters  mv  uncle 


340  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

could  write  would  induce  me,  if  I  had  only  my  own  feelings  to  con- 
suit,  to  cat,  drink,  or  sleep  under  his  roof  But  my  miserj'  of  sus- 
pense about  Marian  gives  me  the  courage  to  follow  her  anywhere — 
to  follow  lier  even  into  Count  Fosco's  house," 

I  thouglit  it  right,  at  this  point,  to  mention  that  Miss  Halcombe 
had  already  gone  on  to  Cumberland,  according  to  Sir  Percival's  ac- 
count of  the  matter. 

''  I  am  afraid  to  believe  it !"  answered  her  ladyship.  "  I  am  afraid 
bhe  is  still  in  that  man's  house.  If  I  am  wrong — if  she  has  really 
gone  on  to  Limmeridge — I  am  resolved  I  will  not  sleep  to-morrow 
night  under  Count  Fosco's  roof.  My  dearest  friend  in  the  world, 
next  to  my  sister,  lives  near  London.  You  have  heard  me,  you  have 
heard  Miss  Halcombe,  speak  of  Mrs.  Vesey  ?  I  mean  to  write,  and 
propose  to  sleep  at  her  house.  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  get  there 
— I  don't  know  how  I  shall  avoid  the  Count — but  to  that  refuge  I 
Avill  escape  in  some  way,  if  my  sister  has  gone  to  Cumberland.  All 
I  ask  of  you  to  do  is  to  see  yourself  that  my  letter  to  Mrs.  Vesey 
goes  to  London  to-night  as  certainly  as  Sir  Percival's  letter  goes  to 
Count  Fosco.  I  have  reasons  for  not  trusting  the  post-bag  down 
stairs.  Will  you  keep  my  secret,  and  help  me  in  this  ?  it  is  the  last 
favor,  perhaps,  that  I  shall  ever  ask  of  you." 

I  hesitated — I  thought  it  all  very  strange — I  almost  feared  that 
her  ladyship's  mind  had  been  a  little  affected  by  recent  anxiety  and 
suffering.  At  my  own  risk,  however,  I  ended  by  giving  my  consent. 
If  the  letter  had  been  addressed  to  a  s-tranger,  or  to  any  one  but  a 
lady  so  well  known  to  me  by  rei)ort  as  Mrs.  Vesey,  I  might  have  re- 
fused. I  thank  God — looking  to  what  happened  aftci'\N^ard — I  thank 
God  I  never  thwarted  that  wish,  or  any  other,  which  Lady  Glyde  ex- 
pressed to  me  on  the  last  day  of  her  residence  at  Blackwater  Park. 

The  letter  was  written,  and  given  into  my  hands.  I  myself  put  it 
into  the  post-box  in  the  village  that  evening. 

We  saw  nothing  more  of  Sir  Percival  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

I  slept,  by  Lady  Glyde's  own  desire,  in  the  next  room  to  hers,  with 
the  door  open  between  us.  There  was  something  so  strange  and 
dreadful  in  the  loneliness  and  emptiness  of  the  house  that  I  was 
glad,  on  my  side,  to  have  a  companion  near  me.  Her  ladyship  sat 
up  late,  reading  letters  and  burning  them,  and  emptying  her  drawers 
and  cabinets  of  little  things  she  prized,  as  if  she  never  exi>ected  to 
return  to  Blackwater  Park.  Her  sleep  was  sadly  disturbed  when 
she  at  last  went  to  bed ;  she  cried  out  in  it  several  times — once  so 
loud  that  she  woke  herself  Whatever  her  dreams  were,  she  did 
not  think  fit  to  communicate  them  to  me.  Perhaps,  in  my  situation, 
I  had  no  right  to  expect  that  she  should  do  so.  It  matters  little 
^now.  1  was  sorry  Ibr  her — I  was  indeed  heartily  sorry  for  her  aU 
the  same. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  341 

The  next  day  was  fine  and  sunny.  Sir  Percival  came  up,  after 
breakfast,  to  tell  us  that  the  chaise  would  be  at  the  door  at  a  quar- 
ter to  twelve,  the  train  to  London  stopping  at  our  station  at  twenty 
minutes  after.  He  informed  Lady  Glyde  that  he  was  obliged  to  go 
out,  but  added  that  he  hoped  to  be  back  before  she  left.  If  any  un- 
foreseen accident  delayed  him,  I  was  to  accompany  her  to  the  sta- 
tion, and  to  take  special  care  that  she  was  in  time  for  the  train.  Sir 
Percival  communicated  these  directions  veiy  hastily,  walking  here 
and  there  about  the  room  all  the  tiaie.  Her  ladyship  looked  atten- 
tively after  him,  wherever  he  went.  He  never  once  looked  at  her  in 
return. 

.    She  only  spoke  when  he  had  done,  and  then  she  stopped  him  as 
he  approached  the  door,  by  holding  out  her  hand. 

"  I  shall  see  you  no  more,"  she  said,  in  a  very  marked  manner. 
"  This  is  our  parting — our  parting,  it  may  be,  forever.  Will  you  try 
to  forgive  me,  Percival,  as  heartily  as  I  forgive  you .?" 

His  face  turned  of  an  awful  whiteness  all  over,  and  great  beads  of 
perspiration  broke  out  on  his  bald  forehead.  "  I  shall  come  back," 
he  said,  and  made  for  the  door  as  hastily  as  if  his  wife's  farewell 
words  had  frightened  him  out  of  the  room. 

I  had  never  liked  Sir  Percival,  but  the  manner  in  which  he  left; 
Lady  Glyde  made  me  feel  ashamed  of  having  eaten  his  bread  and 
lived  in  his  service.  I  thought  of  saying  a  few  comforting  and 
Christian  words  to  the  poor  lady ;  but  there  was  something  in  her 
face,  as  she  looked  after  her  husband  when  the  door  closed  on  him, 
that  made  me  alter  my  mind  and  keep  silence. 

At  the  time  named  the  chaise  drew  up  at  the  gates.  Her  lady- 
ship was  right — Sir  Percival  never  came  back.  I  waited  for  him  till 
the  last  moment — and  w^aited  in  vain. 

No  positive  responsibility  lay  on  my  shoulders,  and  yet  I  did  not 
feel  easy  in  my  mind.  ''It  is  of  your  own  fi*ee-^ill,  I  said,  as  the 
chaise  drove  through  the  lodge-gates,  "  that  your  ladyship  goes  to 
London  ?" 

"  I  will  go  anywhere,"  she  answered,  "  to  end  the  dreadful  suspense 
that  I  am  suffering  at  this  moment." 

She  had  made  me  feel  almost  as  anxious  and  as  uncertain  about 
Miss  Halcombe  as  she  felt  herself.  I  presumed  to  ask  her  to  write 
me  a  line,  if  all  went  well  in  London.  She  answered,  "  Most  willing- 
ly, Mrs.  Michelson,"  "  "We  all  have  our  crosses  to  bear,  my  lady,"  I 
said,  seeing  her  silent  and  thoughtful,  after  she  had  promised  to 
write.  She  made  no  reply :  she  seemed  to  be  too  much  wrapped  up 
in  her  own  thoughts  to  attend  to  me.  "  I  fear  your  ladyship  rested 
badly  last  night,"'  I  remarked,  after  waiting  a  little.  "  Yes,"  she 
said,  "  I  was  terribly  disturbed  by  dreams,"  "  Indeed,  my  lady  ?" 
I  thought  she  was  going  to  tell  me  her  dreams ;  but  no,  when  she 


342  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Fpokc  next  it  was  only  to  ask  a  question.  "  You  posted  the  letter  to 
Mrs.  Vescy  with  your  own  hands?"     ''  Yes, my  lady." 

''  Did  Sir  Percival  say,  yesterday,  that  the  Count  Fosco  was  to  meet 
flic  at  tlie  tcnninus  in  London  V     *•'  lie  did,  my  lady," 

She  sighed  heayily  when  I  answered  that  last  question,  and  said 
no  more. 

We  arrived  at  the  station,  -with  hardly  two  minut<?s  to  spare.  The 
♦gardener  (who  had  driven  us)  managed  about  the  luggage,  while  I 
took  the  ticket.  The  whistle  of  the  train  was  sounding  when  I  join- 
ed her  ladyship  on  the  platfomi.  She  looked  very  strangely,  and 
pressed  her  hand  over  her  heart,  as  if  some  sudden  pain  or  fright  had 
overcome  her  at  that  moment. 

"  I  wish  you  were  going  with  me  I"  she  said,  catching  eagerly  at 
my  ann  when  I  gave  her  the  ticket. 

If  there  had  been  time,  if  I  had  felt  the  day  l^efore  as  I  felt  then,  I 
would  have  made  my  arrangements  to  accompany  her,  even  though 
the  doing  so  had  obliged  me  to  give  Sir  Percival  warning  on  the 
spot.  As  it  was,  her  wishes  expressed  at  the  last  moment  only  were 
expressed  too  late  for  me  to  comply  with  them.  She  seemed  to  un- 
derstand this  herself  before  I  could  explain  it,  and  did  not  repeat 
her  desire  to  have  me  for  a  traveling  companion.  The  train  drew 
up  at  the  platform.  She  gave  the  gardener  a  present  for  his  chil- 
dren, and  took  my  hand,  in  her  simple,  hearty  manner,  before  she 
got  into  the  carnage, 

"You  have  been  very  kind  to  me  and  to  my  sister,"  she  said — 
"  kind  when  we  were  both  friendless.  I  shall  remember  you  grate- 
fully as  long  as  I  live  to  remember  any  one.  Good-bye — and  God 
bless  you !" 

She  spoke  those  words  with  a  tone  and  a  look  which  brought  the 
tears  into  my  eyes — she  spoke  them  as  if  she  was  bidding  me  fare- 
well forever. 

"  Good-bye,  my  lady,"  I  said,  putting  her  into  the  carriage,  and 
trying  to  cheer  her ;  "good-bye,  for  the  present  only  ;  good-bye,  with 
my  best  and  kindest  -VNishes  for  happier  times !" 

She  shook  her  head,  and  shuddered  as  she  settled  herself  in  the 
carriage.  The  guard  closed  the  door.  '•  Do  you  believe  in  di-eams  ?" 
she  whispered  to  me,  at  the  window.  "J/y  dreams,  last  night,  were 
dreams  I  have  never  had  before.  The  terror  of  them  is  hanging 
over  me  still."  The  whistle  sounded  before  I  could  answer,  and  the 
train  moved.  Her  pale,  quiet  face  looked  at  me  for  the  last  time, 
looked  sorrowfully  and  solemnly  from  the  window.  She  waved  her 
band — and  I  saw  her  no  more. 

Toward  five  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  that  same  day,  having  a 
little  time  to  myself  in  the  midst  of  the  household  duties  which  now 


THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE.  343 

pressed  upon  me,  I  sat  down  alone  in  my  own  room,  to  try  and  com- 
pose my  mind  with  the  volume  of  my  husband's  Sermons.  For  the 
lirst  time  in  my  life,  I  found  my  attention  wandering  over  those  pious 
and  cheering  words.  Concluding  that  Lady  Glyde's  departure  must 
have  disturbed  me  far  more  seriously  than  I  had  myself  supposed,  I 
put  the  book  aside,  and  went  out  to  take  a  turn  in  the  garden.  Sir 
Percival  had  not  yet  returned,  to  my  knowledge ;  so  I  could  feel  no 
hesitation  about  showing  myself  in  the  grounds. 

On  turning  the  comer  of  the  house,  and  gaining  a  view  of  the  gar- 
den, I  was  startled  by  seeing  a  stranger  walking  in  it.  The  stranger 
was  a  woman — she  was  lounging  along  the  path,  with  her  back  to 
me,  and  was  gathering  the  flowers. 

As  I  approached,  she  heard  me,  and  turned  round. 

My  blood  curdled  in  my  veins.  The  strange  woman  in  the  garden 
was  Mrs.  Rubelle ! 

I  could  neither  move  nor  speak.  She  came  up  to  me  as  com- 
posedly as  ever,  T\dth  her  flowers  in  her  hand. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  ma'am  ?"  she  said,  quietly. 

^'■Yozi  here  1"  I  gasped  out.  "  Not  gone  to  London !  Not  gone  to 
Cumberland  I'' 

Mrs.  Rubelle  smelled  at  her  flowers  with  a  smile  of  malicious  pity. 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  said.     ''  I  have  never  left  Blackwater  Park." 

I  summoned  breath  enough  and  com-age  enough  for  another  ques- 
tion. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Halcombe  ?" 

Mrs.  Rubelle  fahly  laughed  at  me  this  time,  and  replied  in  these 
words  : 

"  Miss  Halcombe,  ma'am,  has  not  left  Blackwater  Park,  either."  ■ 

When  I  heard  that  astounding  answer,  all  my  thoughts  were  star- 
tled back  on  the  instant  to  my  parting  with  Lady  Glyde.  I  can 
hardly  say  I  reproached  myself,  but  at  that  moment  I  think  I  would 
have  given  many  a  year's  hard  savings  to  have  known  four  hours 
earlier  what  I  knew  now. 

Mrs.  Rul^elle  waited,  quietly  arranging  her  nosegay,  as  if  she  ex- 
pected me  to  say  something. 

I  could  say  nothing.  I  thought  of  Lady  Glyde's  wom-out  ener- 
gies and  weakly  health,  and  I  trembled  for  the  time  when  the  shock 
of  the  discovery  that  I  had  made  would  flill  on  her.  For  a  minute 
or  more  my  fears  for  the  poor  ladies  silenced  me.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  Mrs.  Rubelle  looked  up  sideways  from  her  flowers,  and  said, 
"  Here  is  Sir  Percival,  ma'am,  returned  fi'om  his  ride." 

I  saw  him  as  soon  as  she  did.  He  came  toward  us,  slashing  vi- 
ciously at  the  flowers  Mdth  his  riding-whip.  When  he  was  near 
enough  to  see  my  face  he  stopped,  struck  at  his  boot  with  the  whip, 


344  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

and  Itiirst  out  laughing,  so  harshly  and  so  violently  that  the  birds 
flew  away,  startled,  from  the  tree  by  which  he  stood. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Michclson,"  he  said,  "  you  have  found  it  out  at  last, 
have  you  ?"' 

I  made  no  reply.     He  turned  to  Mrs.  Ruljelle. 

"  When  did  you  show  yourself  in  the  garden  ?" 

"  I  showed  myself  about  half  an  hour  ago,  sir.  You  said  I  might 
take  my  liberty  again  as  soon  as  Lady  Glyde  had  gone  away  to 
London." 

"  Quite  right.  I  don't  blame  you — I  only  asked  the  question." 
He  waited  a  moment,  and  then  addressed  himself  once  more  to  me. 
''  You  can't  believe  it,  can  you  ?"  he  said,  mockingly.  "  Here  !  come 
along,  and  see  for  yourself." 

He  led  the  way  round  to  the  front  of  the  house.  I  followed  him, 
and  Mrs.  Rubelle  followed  me.  After  passing  through  the  iron  gates, 
he  stopped,  and  pointed  -^itli  his  whip  to  the  disused  middle  wing 
of  the  building. 

"  There  I"  he  said.  "  Look  up  at  the  first  floor.  You  know  the 
old  Elizabethan  bedrooms  ?  Miss  Halcombe  is  snug  and  safe  in  one 
of  the  best  of  them  at  this  moment.  Take  her  in,  ]Mrs.  Rubelle  (you 
have  got  your  key  ?j  ;  take  Mrs.  Michelson  in,  and  let  her  own  eyes 
satisfy  her  that  there  is  no  deception  this  time." 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke  to  me,  and  the  minute  or  two  that 
had  passed  since  we  left  the  garden,  helped  me  to  recover  my  spirits 
a  little.  What  I  might  have  done  at  this  critical  moment,  if  all  my 
life  had  been  passed  in  service,  I  can  not  say.  As  it  was,  possessing 
the  feelings,  the  principles,  and  the  bringing-up  of  a  lady,  I  could 
not  hesitate  about  the  right  course  to  pursue.  My  duty  to  myself 
and  my  duty  to  Lady  Glyde  alike  forbade  me  to  remain  in  the  em- 
ployment of  a  man  who  had  shamefully  deceived  us  both  by  a  se- 
ries of  atrocious  falsehoods. 

"  I  must  beg  permission,  Sir  Pcrcival,  to  speak  a  few  words  to  you 
in  private,"  I  said.  "  Having  done  so,  I  shall  be  ready  to  proceed 
with  this  person  to  Miss  Halcombe's  room," 

Mrs.  Kubelle,  whom  I  had  indicated  by  a  slight  turn  of  my  head, 
insolently  snitfed  at  her  nosegay,  and  walked  away,  with  great  delib- 
eration, toward  the  house  door. 

"  Well,"  said  Sir  Percival,  sharply  ;  "  what  is  it  now  ?" 
"  I  wish  to  mention,  sir,  that  I  am  desirous  of  resigning  the  situa- 
tion I  now  hold  at  Blackwater  Park."     That  was  literally  how  I  put 
it.     I  was  resolved  that  the  first  words  spoken  in  his  presence  should 
Ik'  words  which  expressed  my  intention  to  leave  his  service. 

He  eyed  me  with  one  of  his  blackest  looks,  and  thrust  his  hands 
siivagely  into  the  pockets  of  his  riding-coat. 

"  Why  ?"  he  said ;  "  why,  I  should  like  to  know  ?" 


THE    ^YOMAX    IN    WHITE.  345 

"  It  is  not  for  me,  Sir  Percival,  to  express  an  opinion  on  wliat  has 
taken  place  in  this  house.  I  desire  to  give  no  offense.  I  merely 
wish  to  say  that  I  do  not  feel  it  consistent  with  my  duty  to  Lady 
Glyde  and  to  mj^self  to  remain  any  longer  in  your  service." 

''  Is  it  consistent  with  your  duty  to  me  to  stand  there  casting  sus- 
picion on  me  to  my  face  ?"  he  broke  out,  in  his  most  violent  manner. 
''I  see  what  you're  driving  at.  You  have  taken  your  own  mean, un- 
derhand view  of  an  innocent  decej)tion  practiced  on  Lady  Glyde  for 
her  own  good.  It  was  essential  to  her  health  that  she  should  have 
a  change  of  air  immediatelj'',  and  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  she 
would  never  have  gone  away  if  she  had  been  told  Miss  Halcombe 
was  still  left  here.  She  has  been  deceived  in  her  own  interests,  and 
I  don't  care  who  knows  it.  Go,  if  you  like — there  are  plenty  of 
housekeepers  as  good  as  you  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  Go,  when 
you  please — but  take  care  how  you  spread  scandals  about  me  and 
my  affairs  when  you're  out  of  my  service.  Tell  the  truth,  and  noth- 
ing but  the  truth,  or  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you !  See  Miss  Hal- 
combe for  yourself;  see  if  she  hasn't  been  as  well  taken  care  of  in 
one  part  of  the  house  as  in  the  other.  Remember  the  doctor's  own 
orders  that  Lady  Glyde  was  to  have  a  change  of  air  at  the  earliest 
possible  opportunity.  Bear  all  that  well  in  mind — and  then  say 
any  thing  against  me  and  my  proceedings  if  you  dare  !" 

He  poured  out  these  words  fiercely,  all  in  a  breath,  walking  back- 
ward and  forward,  and  striking  about  him  in  the  air  with  his  whip. 

Nothing  that  he  said  or  did  shook  my  opinion  of  thd^isgraceful 
series  of  falsehoods  that  he  had  told,  in  my  presence,  the  day  before, 
or  of  the  cruel  deception  by  which  he  had  separated  Lady  Glyde 
from  her  sister,  and  had  sent  her  uselessly  to  London,  when  she  was 
half  distracted  with  anxiety  on  Miss  Halcombe's  account.  I  natu- 
rally kept  these  thoughts  to  myself,  and  said  nothing  more  to  irri- 
tate him ;  but  I  was  not  the  less  resolved  to  persist  in  my  puqjose. 
A  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath,  and  I  suppressed  my  own  feel- 
ings, accordingly,  when  it  was  my  turn  to  reply. 

*'  While  I  am  in  your  service,  Sir  Percival,"  I  said,  "  I  hope  I  know 
my  duty  well  enough  not  to  inquire  into  your  motives.  When  I  am 
out  of  your  service,  I  hope  I  know  my  own  place  well  enough  not  to 
speak  of  matters  which  don't  concern  me — " 

''  When  do  you  want  to  go  ?"  he  asked,  interrupting  me  without 
ceremony.  "  Don't  suppose  I  am  anxious  to  keep  you — don't  sup- 
pose I  care  about  your  leaving  the  house.  I  am  perfectly  fair  and 
open  in  this  matter,  from  first  to  last.     When  do  you  want  to  go  ?" 

"  I  should  wish  to  leave  at  your  earliest  convenience,  Sir  Perci- 
val." 

"  My  convenience  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  shall  be  out  of 
the  house,  for  good  and  all,  to-morrow  morning,  and  I  can  settle 

15* 


846  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

3-oiir  arcoiints  to-jiii^Hit.  If  yon  want  to  study  any  body's  conven- 
ience, it  had  better  be  Miss  Halcombe's.  Mrs.  Rubelle's  time  is  up 
to-day,  and  she  has  reasons  for  wishing  to  be  in  London  to-night. 
If  you  go  at  once.  Miss  Halcombe  won't  have  a  soul  left  here  to  look 
after  her." 

I  ho2)e  it  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  say  that  I  was  quite  incapable 
of  deserting  Miss  Halcombe  in  such  au  emergency  as  had  now  be- 
fidlen  Lady  Glydc  and  herself.  After  first  distinctly  ascertaining 
from  Sir  Percival  that  Mrs.  Rubelle  was  certain  to  leave  at  once  if  I 
took  her  place,  and  after  also  obtaining  permission  to  arrange  for 
Mr.  Dawson's  resuming  his  attendance  on  his  patient,  I  willingly 
consented  to  remain  at  Blackwater  Park  until  Miss  Halcombe  no 
longer  required  my  services.  It  was  settled  that  I  should  give  Sir 
Percival's  solicitor  a  week's  notice  before  I  left,  and  that  he  was  to 
undertake  the  necessary  arrangements  for  appointing  my  successor. 
The  matter  was  discussed  in  very  few  words.  At  its  conclusion  Sir 
Percival  abruptly  turned  on  his  heel,  and  left  me  fi*ee  to  join  Mrs. 
Rubelle.  That  singular  foreign  person  had  been  sitting  composedly 
on  the  door-step  all  this  time,  waiting  till  I  could  follow  her  to  Miss 
Halcombe's  room. 

I  had  hardly  walked  half-way  toward  the  house  when  Sir  Perci- 
val, who  had  withdrawn  in  the  opposite  direction,  suddenly  stopped 
and  called  me  back. 

"  Why  are  you  leaving  my  service  ?"  he  asked. 

The  question  was  so  extraordinaiy,  after  what  had  just  passed  be- 
tween us,  that  I  hardly  knew  what  to  say  in  answer  to  it. 

"  Mind  !  I  don't  know  why  you  are  going,"  he  went  on.  "  You 
must  give  a  reason  for  leaving  me,  I  suppose,  when  you  get  another 
situation.  What  reason  ?  The  breaking  up  of  the  flimily  ?  Is  that 
it  ?" 

"There  can  be  no  2)ositive  objection.  Sir  Percival,  to  that  rea- 
son— " 

"  Very  well !  That's  all  I  want  to  know.  If  people  apply  for 
your  character,  that's  your  reason,  stated  by  yourself.  You  go  in 
consequence  of  the  breaking  up  of  the  family." 

He  turned  away  again,  before  I  could  say  another  word,  and  walk- 
ed out  rapidly  into  the  grounds.  His  manner  was  as  strange  as  his 
language.     I  acknowledge  he  alarmed  me.  ^' 

Even  the  patience  of  Mrs.  Rubelle  was  getting  exhausted,  when  I 
joined  her  n^  tlie  house  door. 

"At  last!"  she  said,  with  a  shrug  of  her  lean  foreign  shoulders. 
She  led  the  way  into  the  inhabited  side  of  the  house,  ascended  the 
stairs,  and  opened  with  her  key  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  passage, 
whicli  communicated  with  the  old  Elizabethan  rooms— -a  door  nev- 
er previously  used,  in  my  ^ime,  at  Blackwater  Park.     The  rooms 


THE  ^yo^rAX  in  white.  347 

themselves  I  knew  well,  having  entered  them  myself,  on  various  oc- 
casions, from  the  other  side  of  the  house.  JVIrs.  Rubelle  stopped  at 
the  third  door  along  the  old  gallery,  handed  me  the  key  of  it,  with 
the  key  of  the  door  of  communication,  and  told  me  I  should  find 
]\Iiss  Halcombe  in  that  room.  Before  I  went  in,  I  thought  it  desir- 
able to  make  her  understand  that  her  attendance  had  ceased.  Ac- 
cordingly, I  told  her  in  plain  words  that  the  charge  of  the  sick  lady 
aenceforth  devolved  entirely  on  myself 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Rubelle.  ''  I  want  to  go 
very  much." 

"  Do  you  leave  to-day  ?"  I  asked,  to  make  sure  of  her. 

"  Now  that  you  have  taken  charge,  ma'am,  I  leave  in  half  an 
hour's  time.  Sir  Percival  has  kindly  placed  at  my  disposition  the 
gardener  and  the  chaise  whenever  I  want  them.  I  shall  want  them 
in  half  an  hour's  time,  to  go  to  the  station.  I  am  packed  up,  in  an- 
ticipation, already.     I  wish  you  good-day,  ma'am." 

She  dropped  a  brisk  courtesy  and  walked  back  along  the  gallery, 
humming  a  little  tune,  and  keeping  time  to  it  cheerfully  with  the 
nosegay  in  her  hand.  I  am  sincerely  thankful  to  say  that  was  the 
last  I  saw  of  Mrs.  Rubelle. 

When  I  went  into  the  room  !Miss  Halcombe  was  asleep.  I  looked 
at  her  anxiously,  as  she  lay  in  the  dismal,  high,  old-fashioned  bed. 
She  was  certainly  not  in  any  respect  altered  for  the  worse  since  I 
had  seen  her  last.  She  had  not  been  neglected,  I  am  bound  to  ad- 
mit, in  any  way  that  I  could  perceive.  The  room  was  dreary,  and 
dusty,  and  dark ;  but  the  window  (looking  on  a  solitary  court-yard 
at  the  back  of  the  house)  was  opened  to  let  in  the  fresh  air,  and  all 
that  could  be  done  to  make  the  place  comfortable  had  been  done. 
The  whole  cruelty  of  Sir  Percival's  deception  had  fallen  on  poor 
Lady  Glyde.  The  only  ill  usage  which  either  he  or  Mrs.  Rubelle 
had  inflicted  on  Miss  Halcombe  consisted,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  in 
the  first  oflense  of  hiding  her  away. 

I  stole  back,  leaving  the  sick  lady  still  peacefully  asleep,  to  give 
the  gardener  instructions  about  bringing  the  doctor.  I  begged  the 
man,  after  he  had  taken  Mrs.  Rubelle  to  the  station,  to  drive  round 
by  Mr.  Dawson's,  and  leave  a  message,  in  my  name,  asking  him  to 
call  and  see  me.  I  knew  he  would  come  on  my  account,  and  I 
knew  he  would  remain  when  he  found  Count  Fosco  had  left  the 
house. 

In  due  course  of  time  the  gardener  returned,  and  said  that  he  had 
driven  round  by  Mr.  Dawson's  residence,  after  leaving  Mrs.  Rubelle 
at  the  station.  The  doctor  sent  me  word  that  he  was  poorly  in 
health  himself,  but  that  he  would  call,  if  possible,  the  next  morning. 

Having  delivered  his  message,  the  gardener  was  about  to  with- 
draw, but  I  stopped  him  to  request  that  he  would  come  back  before 


348  THE    WOMAN    IN    WIIITK, 

d:irk,  and  sit  up,  that  night,  in  one  of  the  empty  bedrooms,  so  as  to 
be  within  call  in  case  I  wanted  him.  He  understood  readily  enough 
my  unwillingness  to  be  left  alone  all  night,  in  the  most  desolate 
part  of  that  desolate  liouse,  and  we  arranged  that  he  should  come 
in  between  eight  and  nine. 

He  came  punctually,  and  I  found  cause  to  be  thankful  that  I 
had  adopted  the  jDrecaution  of  calling  him  in.  Before  midnight  Sir 
Percival's  strange  temper  broke  out  in  the  most  violent  and  most 
alarming  manner,  and  if  the  gardener  had  not  been  on  the  spot  to 
pacify  him  on  the  instant,  I  am  afraid  to  think  w^hat  might  have 
happened. 

Almost  all  the  afternoon  and  evening  he  had  been  walking  about 
the  house  and  grounds  in  an  unsettled,  excitable  manner,  having,  in 
all  probability,  as  I  thought,  taken  an  excessive  quantity  of  wine  at 
his  solitary  dinner.  How^ever  that  may  be,  I  heard  his  voice  calling 
loudly  and  angrily,  in  the  new  wing  of  the  house,  as  I  was  taking 
a  turn  backward  and  forward  along  the  gallery  the  last  thing  at 
night.  The  gardener  immediately  ran  down  to  him,  and  I  closed 
the  door  of  communication,  to  keep  the  alarm,  if  possible,  from 
reaching  Miss  Halcombe's  ears.  It  w^as  full  half  an  hour  before  the 
gardener  came  back.  He  declared  that  his  master  was  quite  out 
of  his  senses — not  through  the  excitement  of  drink,  as  I  had  sup- 
posed, but  through  a  kind  of  panic  or  frenzy  of  mind,  for  which  it 
was  impossible  to  account.  He  had  found  Sir  Percival  walking 
backward  and  forward  by  himself  in  the  hall,  swearing,  with  every 
appearance  of  the  most  violent  passion,  that  he  w^ould  not  stop  an- 
other minute  alone  in  such  a  dungeon  as  his  owm  liouse,  and  that 
he  would  take  the  first  stage  of  his  journey  immediately,  in  the 
middle  of  the  night.  The  gardener,  on  approaching  him,  had  been 
hunted  out,  with  oaths  and  threats,  to  get  the  horse  and  chaise 
reidy  instantly.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Sir  Percival  had  joined 
hhn  in  the  yard,  had  jumped  into  the  chaise,  and,  lashing  the  horse 
into  a  gallop,  had  driven  himself  away,  with  his  face  as  pale  as 
ashes  in  the  moonlight.  The  gardener  had  heard  him  shouting 
and  cursing  at  the  lodge-keeper  to  get  up  and  open  the  gate — had 
heard  the  wheels  roll  furiously  on  again,  in  the  still  night,  when  the 
gate  was  unlocked — and  knew  no  more. 

The  next  day,  or  a  day  or  two  after,  I  forget  which,  the  chaise 
was  brought  back  from  Knowlesbury,  our  nearest  town,  by  the  hos- 
tler at  the  old  inn.  Sir  Percival  had  stopped  there,  and  had  after- 
ward left  by  the  train — for  wdiat  destination  the  man  could  not  tell. 
I  never  received  any  further  information,  either  from  himself  or  from 
any  one  else,  of  Sir  Percival's  proceedings,  and  I  am  not  even  aware, 
at  this  moment,  whether  he  is  in  England  or  out  of  it.  He  and  I 
have  not  met  since  he  drove  aw^ay,  like  an  escaped  criminal,  from 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  34b 

his  own  house,  and  it  is  my  fervent  hope  and  prayer  that  we  may 
never  meet  again. 

My  own  part  of  this  sad  family  story  is  now  drawing  to  an  end. 

I  have  been  informed  that  the  particulars  of  Miss  Halcombe's 
waking,  and  of  what  passed  between  us  when  she  found  me  sitting 
by  her  bedside,  are  not  material  to  the  purpose  which  is  to  be  an- 
swered by  the  present  narrative.  It  will  be  sufficient  for  me  to  say, 
in  this  place,  that  she  was  not  herself  conscious  of  the  means  adopt- 
ed to  remove  her  from  the  inhabited  to  the  uninhabited  part  of  the 
house.  She  was  in  a  deep  sleej)  at  the  time,  whether  naturally  or 
artificially  produced  she  could  not  say.  In  my  absence  at  Torquay, 
and  in  the  absence  of  all  the  resident  servants,  except  Margaret 
Porcher  (who  was  perpetually  eating,  drinking,  or  sleeping,  when 
she  was  not  at  work),  the  secret  transfer  of  Miss  Halcombe  from 
one  part  of  the  house  to  the  other  was  no  doubt  easily  performed. 
3Irs.  Rubelle  (as  I  discovered  for  myself,  in  looking  about  the  room) 
had  provisions,  and  ail  other  necessaries,  together  with  the  means 
of  heating  water,  broth,  and  so  on,  without  kindling  a  fire,  placed  at 
her  disjDOsal  during  the  few  days  of  her  imprisonment  with  the  sick 
lady.  She  had  declined  to  answer  the  questions  which  Miss  Hal- 
combe naturally  put,  but  had  not,  in  other  respects,  treated  her  with 
unkindness  or  neglect.  The  disgrace  of  lending  herself  to  a  vile 
deception  is  the  only  disgrace  with  which  I  can  conscientiously 
charge  Mrs.  Rubelle. 

I  need  write  no  particulars  (and  I  am  relieved  to  know  it)  of  the 
efiect  produced  on  Miss  Halcombe  by  the  news  of  Lady  Glyde's  de- 
parture, or  by  the  far  more  melancholy  tidings  which  reached  us 
only  too  soon  after«-ard  at  Blackwater  Park.  In  both  cases  I  pre- 
pared her  mind  beforehand  as  gently  and  as  carefully  as  possible, 
having  the  doctor's  advice  to  guide  me  in  the  last  case  only,  through 
Mr.  Dawson's  being  too  unwell  to  come  to  the  house  for  some  days 
after  I  had  sent  for  him.  It  was  a  sad  time,  a  time  which  it  afflicts 
me  to  think  of,  or  to  write  of.  now.  The  precious  blessings  of  relig- 
ious consolation  which  I  endeavored  to  convey  were  long  in  reach- 
ing  Miss  Halcombe's  heart,  but  I  hope  and  believe  they  came  home 
to  her  at  last.  I  never  left  her  till  her  strength  was  restored.  The 
train  which  took  me  away  from  that  miserable  house  was  the  train 
which  took  her  away  also.  We  parted  very  mournfully  in  London. 
I  remained  with  a  relative  at  Islington,  and  she  went  on  to  Mr.  Fair- 
lie's  house  in  Cumberland. 

I  have  only  a  few  lines  more  to  write  before  I  close  this  painful 
statement.     They  are  dictated  by  a  sense  of  duty. 

In  the  first  place,  I  wish  to  record  my  own  jjersonal  conviction 
that  no  blame  whatever  in  connection  with  the  events  which  I  have 


^oO  THE    WOJIAX   IX    WHITE. 

now  related  attaches  to  Count  Fosco.  I  am  informed  that  a  dread- 
ful suspicion  has  been  raised,  and  that  some  very  serious  construc- 
tions are  placed  upon  his  lordship's  conduct.  My  persuasion  of  the 
Count's  innocence  remains,  however,  quite  unshaken.  If  he  assisted 
Sir  Percival  in  sending  me  to  Torqua}^,  he  assisted  under  a  delusion, 
for  which,  as  a  foreigner  and  a  stranger,  he  was  not  to  blame.  If  he 
was  concerned  in  bringing  Mrs.  Rubelle  to  Blackwater  Park,  it  was 
his  misfortune  and  not  his  fault,  when  that  foreign  person  was  base 
enough  to  assist  a  deception  planned  and  carried  out  by  the  master 
of  the  house.  I  protest,  in  the  interests  of  morality,  against  blame 
being  gratuitously  and  wantonly  attached  to  the  proceedings  of  the 
Count. 

In  the  second  place,  I  desire  to  express  my  regret  at  my  cwn  in- 
ability to  remember  the  precise  day  on  which  Lady  Glyde  left 
Blackwater  Park  for  London.  I  am  told  that  it  is  of  the  last  impor- 
tance to  ascertain  the  exact  date  of  that  lamentable  journey;  and  I 
have  anxiously  taxed  my  memory  to  recall  it.  The  effort  has  been 
in  vain.  I  am  only  remember  now  that  it  w^as  toward  the  latter 
part  of  July.  We  all  know^  the  difficulty,  after  a  lapse  of  time,  of  fix- 
ing precisely  on  a  past  date,  unless  it  has  been  previously  written 
down.  That  difficulty  is  greatly  increased,  in  my  case,  by  the  alarm- 
ing and  confusing  events  which  took  place  about  the  period  of  Lady 
Glyde's  departure.  I  heartily  wash  I  had  made  a  memorandum  at 
the  time.  I  heartily  wish  my  memory  of  the  date  was  as  vivid  as 
my  memory  of  that  poor  lady's  face,  wdien  it  looked  at  me  sorrow- 
fully for  the  last  time  from  the  carriage  window. 


THE  STORY  CONTINUED  IN  SEVERAL  NARRATIVES. 

1.  Th4  Narrative  of  Hester  PiNnoiiN,  Cook  hi  the  Service  of  Count 

Fosco. 
\Takc)i  down  from  Jicr  own  statemoU.] 

I  AM  sorry  to  say  that  I  have  never  learned  to  read  or  write,  I 
have  been  a  hard-working  woman  all  my  life,  and  have  kept  a  good 
character.  I  know  that  it  is  a  sin  and  wickedness  to  say  the  thing 
which  is  not,  and  I  will  tnily  beware  of  doing  so  on  this  occasion. 
All  that  I  know,  I  will  tell ;  and  I  humbly  beg  the  gentleman  who 
takes  this  down  to  put  my  language  right  as  he  goes  on,  and  to 
make  allowances  for  my  being  no  scholar. 

In  this  last  summer  I  happened  to  be  out  of  place  (through  no 
fault  of  my  own),  and  I  heard  of  a  situation,  as  plain  cook,  at  Num- 
ber Five  Forest  Road,  St.  John's  Wood.  I  took  the  place,  on  trial. 
My  master's  name  was  Fosco.     My  mistress  was  an  English  lady. 


THE    "WOMAN   IN    TVIIITE.  351 

He  was  Count,  and  she  was  Countess,  There  was  a  girl  to  do  liouse- 
maid's  work,  when  I  got  there.  She  was  not  over  clean  or  tidy,  but 
there  was  no  harm  in  her.  I  and  she  were  the  only  servants  in  the 
house. 

Our  master  and  mistress  came  after  we  got  in.  And  as  soon  as 
they  did  come,  we  were  told,  down  stairs,  that  company  was  expect- 
ed from  the  country. 

Tlie  company  was  my  mistress's  niece,  and  the  back  bedroom  on 
the  first  floor  was  got  ready  for  her.  My  mistress  mentioned  to  me 
that  Lady  Glyde  (that  was  her  name)  was  in  poor  health,  and  that  I 
must  be  particular  in  my  cooking  accordingly.  She  was  to  come 
that  day,  as  well  as  I  can  remember — but,  whatever  you  do,  don't 
trust  my  memory  in  the  matter.  I  am  sorry  to  say  it's  no  use  asking 
me  about  days  of  the  month,  and  such-like.  Except  Sundays,  half 
my  time  I  take  no  heed  of  them,  being  a  hard-working  woman  and 
no  scholar.  All  I  know  is.  Lady  Glyde  came ;  and,  when  she  did 
come,  a  fine  fright  she  gave  us  all,  surely.  I  don't  know  how  master 
brought  her  to  the  house,  being  hard  at  work  at  the  time.  But  he 
did  bring  her,  in  the  afternoon,  I  think ;  and  the  house-maid  open- 
ed the  door  to  them,  and  showed  them  into  the  parlor.  Before  she 
had  been  long  down  in  the  kitchen  again  with  me»,  we  heard  a  hur- 
ry-skurry  up  stairs,  and  the  parlor  bell  ringing  like  mad,  and  my 
mistress's  voice  calling  out  for  help. 

We  both  ran  up,  and  there  we  saw  the  lady  laid  on  the  sofa,  with 
her  face  ghastly  white,  and  her  hands  fast  clinched,  and  her  head 
drawn  down  to  one  side.  She  had  been  taken  with  a  sudden  fright, 
my  mistress  said,  and  master  he  told  us  she  was  in  a  fit  of  convul- 
sions. I  ran  out,  knowing  the  neighborhood  a  little  better  than  the 
rest  of  them,  to  fetch  the  nearest  doctor's  help.  The  nearest  help 
was  at  Goodricke's  and  Garth's,  who  worked  together  as  partners, 
and  had  a  good  name  and  connection,  as  I  have  heard,  all  round  St. 
John's  Wood.  Mr.  Goodricke  was  in,  and  he  came  back  with  me 
directly. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  make  himself  of  much  use. 
The  poor  unfortunate  lady  fell  out  of  one  fit  into  another,  and  went 
on  so  till  she  was  quite  wearied  out,  and  as  helpless  as  a  new-bom 
babe.  We  then  got  her  to  bed.  Mr.  Goodricke  went  away  to  his 
house  for  medicine,  and  came  back  again  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or 
less.  Besides  the  medicine  he  brought  a  bit  of  hollow  mahogany 
wood  with  him,  shaped  like  a  kind  of  trumpet ;  and,  after  waiting 
a  little  while,  he  put  one  end  over  the  lady's  heart  and  the  other  to 
his  ear,  and  listened  carefully. 

When  he  had  done,  he  says  to  my  mistress,  who  was  in  the  room, 
"  This  is  a  very  serious  case,"  he  says ;  "  I  recommend  you  to  write 
to  Lady  Clyde's  friends  directly."     My  mistress  says  to  him, ''  Is  it 


352  TIIK    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

lit'art-disease?"  And  he  says,  "  Yes,  heart-disease  of  a  most  dan- 
jrtTous  kind."  lie  tokl  lier  exactly  what  he  tlionght  was  tlie  mat- 
ter, wliich  I  was  not  clever  enough  to  understand.  But  I  know 
this,  he  ended  by  saying  that  he  was  afraid  neither  his  help  nor  any 
other  doctor's  help  was  likely  to  be  of  much  service. 

My  mistress  took  this  ill  news  more  quietly  than  my  master.  He 
was  a  big,  tlit,  odd  sort  of  elderly  man,  who  kept  birds  and  white 
mice,  and  spoke  to  them  as  if  they  were  so  many  Christian  children. 
He  seemed  terribly  cut  up  by  what  had  happened.  "  Ah !  poor 
Lady  Glyde !  poor  dear  Lady  Glyde !"  he  says — and  went  stalking 
about,  wringing  his  fat  hands  more  like  a  play-actor  than  a  gentle- 
man. For  one  question  my  mistress  asked  the  doctor  about  the 
lady's  chances  of  getting  round,  he  asked  a  good  fifty  at  least.  I 
declare  he  quite  tormented  us  all,  and,  when  he  was  quiet  at  last, 
out  he  went  into  the  bit  of  back  garden,  picking  trumpery  little 
nosegays,  and  asking  me  to  take  them  up  stairs  and  make  the  sick- 
room look  pretty  with  them.  As  if  that  did  any  good  !  I  think  he 
must  have  been,  at  times,  a  little  soft  in  his  head.  But  he  was  not 
a  bad  master:  he  had  a  monstrous  civil  tongue  of  his  own,  and  a 
jolly,  easy,  coaxing  way  with  him.  I  liked  him  a  deal  better  than 
my  mistress.     She  was  a  hard  one,  if  ever  there  was  a  hard  one  yet. 

Toward  night-time  the  lady  roused  up  a  little.  She  had  been  so 
wearied  out,  before  that,  by  the  convulsions,  that  she  never  stirred 
hand  or  foot,  or  spoke  a  word  to  any  body.  She  moved  in  the  bed 
now,  and  stared  about  her  at  the  room  and  us  in  it.  Bhe  must  have 
been  a  nice-looking  lady  when  well,  with  light  hair,  and  blue  eyes, 
and  all  that.  Her  rest  was  troubled  at  night — at  least  so  I  heard 
from  my  mistress,  who  sat  up  alone  with  her.  I  only  went  in  once 
before  going  to  bed,  to  see  if  I  could  be  of  any  use,  and  then  she 
was  talking  to  herself,  in  a  confiised,  rambling  manner.  She  seemed 
to  want  sudly  to  speak  to  somebody  who  was  absent  from  her  some- 
where. I  couldn't  catch  the  name  the  first  time,  and  the  second 
time  master  knocked  at  the  door,  v/ith  his  regular  mouthful  of 
questions,  and  another  of  his  trumpery  nosegays. 

When  I  went  in,  early  the  next  morning,  the  lady  was  clean  worn 
out  again,  and  lay  in  a  kind  of  faint  sleep.  Mr.  Goodricke  brought 
his  partner,  Mr.  Garth,  with  him  to  advise.  They  said  she  must  not 
be  disturbed  out  of  her  rest  on  any  account.  They  asked  my  mis- 
tress a  many  questions,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  about  what 
the  lady's  health  had  been  in  past  times,  and  who  had  attended  her, 
and  whether  she  had  ever  sufiered  much  and  long  together  under 
distress  of  mind.  I  remember  my  mistress  said,  "  Yes,"  to  that  last 
question.  And  Mr.  Goodricke  looked  at  Mr.  Garth,  and  shook  his 
liead  ;  and  Mr,  Garth  looked  at  Mr,  Goodricke,  and  shook  his  head. 
They  seemed  to  think  that  the  distress  might  have  something  to  do 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  353 

with  the  mischief  at  the  hifly's  heart.  She  was  hut  a  frail  thing  tc 
look  at,  poor  creature  I  Very  little  strength  at  any  time,  I  should 
say — very  little  strength. 

Later  on  the  same  morning,  when  she  woke,  the  lady  took  a  sud- 
den turn,  and  got  seemingly  a  great  deal  better.  -  I  was  not  let  in 
again  to  see  her,  no  more  was  the  house-maid,  for  the  reason  that 
she  was  not  to  be  disturbed  by  strangers.  What  I  heard  of  her  be- 
ing better  was  through  my  master.  He  was  in  wonderful  good  spir- 
its about  the  change,  and  looked  in  at  the  kitchen  window  from  the 
garden,  with  his  great  big  curly-brimmed  white  hat  on,  to  go  out. 

"  Good  Mrs.  Cook,"  says  he,  "  Lady  Glyde  is  better.  My  mind  is 
more  easy  than  it  was,  and  I  am  going  out  to  stretch  my  big  legs 
with  a  sunny  little  summer  walk.  Shall  I  order  for  you,  shall  I 
market  for  you,  Mrs.  Cook  ?  What  are  you  making  there  ?  A  nice 
tart  for  dinner  ?  Much  crust,  if  you  please — much  crisp  crust,  my 
dear,  that  melts  and  crumbles  delicious  in  the  mouth."  That  was 
his  way.  He  was  past  sixty,  and  fond  of  pastry.  Just  think  of 
that! 

The  doctor  came  again  in  the  forenoon,  and  saw  for  himself  that 
Lady  Glyde  had  woke  up  better.  He  forbid  us  to  talk  to  her,  or  to 
let  her  talk  to  us,  in  case  she  was  that  way  disposed,  saying  she 
must  be  kept  quiet  before  all  things,  and  encouraged  to  sleep  as 
much  as  possible.  She  did  not  seem  to  want  to  talk  whenever  I 
saw  her — except  overnight,  when  I  couldn't  make  out  what  she  was 
saying — she  seemed  too  much  worn  down.  Mr.  Goodricke  was  not 
nearly  in  such  good  spirits  about  her  as  master.  He  said  nothing 
when  he  came  down  stairs,  except  that  he  would  call  again  at  five 
o'clock. 

About  that  time  (which  was  before  master  came  home  again)  the 
bell  rang  hard  from  the  bedroom,  and  my  mistress  ran  out  into  the 
landing,  and  called  to  me  to  go  for  Mr.  Goodricke,  and  tell  him  the 
lady  had  fainted.  I  got  on  my  l)onnet  and  shawl,  when,  as  good 
luck  would  have  it,  the  doctor  himself  came  to  the  house  for  his 
promised  visit. 

I  let  him  in,  and  went  up  stairs  along  with  him,  "  Lady  Glyde 
was  just  as  usual,"  says  my  mistress  to  him  at  the  door;  ''she  was 
awake,  and  looking  about  her,  in  a  strange  forlorn  manner,  when 
I  heard  her  give  a  sort  of  half  cry,  and  she  fainted  in  a  moment." 
The  doctor  went  up  to  the  bed,  and  stooped  down  over  the  sick  lady. 
He  looked  very  serious,  all  on  a  sudden,  at  the  sight  of  her,  and  put 
his  hand  on  her  heart. 

My  mistress  stared  hard  in  Mr.  Goodricke's  face.  '•  Xot  dead !" 
says  she,  whispering,  and  turning  all  of  a  tremble  from  head  to 
foot. 

"  Yes,"  says  the  doctor,  very  quiet  and  grave.      "  Dead.     I  waa 


354  THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE. 

afraid  it  would  happen  suddenly,  when  I  examined  her  heart  yes- 
terday."' My  mistress  stepped  back  from  the  bedside  while  he  was 
speaking:,  and  trembled  and  tremi)led  again.  "  Dead  I"  she  whis- 
pers to  herself;  "  dead  so  suddenly  !  dead  so  soon  !  What  will  the 
Count  say  ?"  Mr.  Goodricke  advised  her  to  go  down  stairs,  and 
quiet  herself  a  little.  ''You  have  been  sitting  up  all  night,"  says 
lie,  "  and  your  nerves  are  shaken.  This  person,"  says  he,  meaning 
me,  "  this  person  will  stay  in  the  room  till  I  can  send  for  the  neces- 
sary assistance."  My  mistress  did  as  he  told  her.  "  I  must  prepare 
the  Count,"  she  says.  "  I  must  carefully  prepare  the  Count."  And 
so  she  left  us,  shaking  from  head  to  foot,  and  went  out. 

"  Your  master  is  a  foreigner,"  says  Mr.  Goodricke,  when  my 
mistress  had  left  us.  "  Does  he  understand  about  registering  the 
death  ?"  "  I  can't  rightly  tell,  sir,"  says  I,  "  but  I  should  think  not." 
The  doctor  considered  a  minute,  and  then,  says  he,  "  I  don't  usually 
do  such  things,"  says  he,  "  but  it  may  save  the  family  trouble  in  this 
case  if  I  register  the  death  myself  I  shall  pass  the  district  office  in 
half  an  hour's  time,  and  I  can  easily  look  in.  Mention,  if  you  please, 
that  I  will  do  so."  "Yes,  sir,"  says  I, "  with  thanks,  I'm  sure,  for 
your  kindness  in  thinking  of  it."  "  You  don't  mind  staying  here 
till  I  can  send  you  the  proper  person  ?"  sa^'s  he.  "  No,  sir,"  says  I ; 
"I'll  stay  with  the  poor  lady  till  then.  I  suppose  nothing  more 
could  be  done,  sir,  than  was  done  ?"  says  I.  "  No,"  says  he,  "  noth- 
ing ;  she  must  have  suffered  sadly  before  ever  I  saw  her :  the  case 
w\as  hopeless  when  I  was  called  in."  "  Ah,  dear  me !  we  all  come 
to  it,  sooner  or  later,  don't  we,  sir  ?"  says  I.  He  gave  no  answer  to 
that ;  he  didn't  seem  to  care  about  talking.  He  said, ''  Good-day," 
and  went  out. 

I  stopped  by  the  bedside  from  that  time  till  the  time  when  Mr. 
Goodricke  sent  the  person  in,  as  he  had  promised.  She  was  by 
name  Jane  Gould.  I  considered  her  to  be  a  respectable-looking 
woman.  She  made  no  remark,  except  to  say  that  she  understood 
what  was  wanted  of  her,  and  that  she  had  winded  a  many  of  them 
in  lier  time. 

How  master  bore  the  news,  when  he  first  heard  it,  is  more  than  I 
can  tell,  not  having  been  present.  When  I  did  see  him  he  looked 
awfully  overcome  by  it,  to  be  sure.  He  sat  quiet  in  a  corner,  with 
his  fat  hands  hanging  over  his  thick  knees,  and  his  head  down,  and 
his  eyes  looking  at  nothing.  He  seemed  not  so  much  sorry  as 
scared  and  dazed  like,  by  what  had  happened.  My  mistress  man- 
aged all  that  was  to  be  done  about  the  funeral.  It  must  have  cost 
a  sight  of  money :  the  coffin,  in  particular,  being  most  beautiful. 
The  dead  lady's  husband  was  away,  as  we  heard,  in  foreign  parts. 
But  my  mistress  O-'eing  her  aunt)  settled  it  with  her  friends  in  the 
country  (Cumberland,  I  think)  that  she  should  be  buried  there,  in 


THE  wom:ax  IX  WHITE.  355 

the  same  grave  along  with  her  mother.  Every  tiling  was  done 
handsomely  in  respect  of  the  funeral,  I  say  again,  and  master  went 
down  to  attend  the  burying  in  the  country  himself.  He  looked 
grand  in  his  deep  mourning,  with  his  big,  solemn  face,  and  his  slow 
vralk,  and  his  broad  hat-band — that  he  did  I 
In  conclusion,  I  have  to  say,  in  answer  to  questions  jDut  to  me, 

(1)  That  neither  I  nor  my  fellow-servant  ever  saw  my  master  give 
Lady  Glyde  any  medicine  himself. 

(2)  That  he  was  never,  to  my  knowledge  and  belief,  left  alone  in 
the  room  with  Lady  Glyde. 

(3)  That  I  am  not  able  to  say  what  caused  the  sudden  fright 
which  my  mistress  informed  me  had  seized  the  lady  on  her  first 
coming  into  the  house.  The  cause  was  never  explained,  either  to 
me  or  to  my  fellow-servant. 

The  above  statement  has  been  read  over  in  my  presence.  I  have 
nothing  to  add  to  it  or  to  take  away  from  it.  I  say,  on  my  oath  as 
a  Christian  woman,  This  is  the  truth. 

(Signed)  Hester  Pixhoex,  Her  +  Mark. 

2.  The  Karratide  of  tlie  Doctor. 

To  the  Registrar  of  the  Sub-District  in  which  the  under-men- 
tioned Death  took  place. — I  hereby  certify  that  I  attended  Lady 
Glyde,  aged  Twenty-One  last  Birthday ;  that  I  last  saw  her  on  Thurs- 
day, the  2oth  July,  1850  ;  that  she  died  on  the  same  day  at  No.  5 
Forest  Road,  St.  John'^  Wood  ;  and  that  the  cause  of  her  death  was, 
Aneurism.     Duration  of  Disease,  not  known. 

(Signed)  Alfred  Goodricke. 

Prof .  Title.     21.  R.  C.  S.  Eng.  L.  S.  A. 

Address.    12  Croydon  Gardens,  St.  John'' 8  J\'ood. 


3.  The  Narrative  of  Jane  Gould. 

I  WAS  the  person  sent  in  by  Mr.  Goodricke  to  do  what  was  right 
and  needfiil  by  the  remains  of  a  lady  who  had  died  at  the  house 
named  in  the  certificate  which  precedes  this.  I  found  the  body  in 
charge  of  the  servant,  Hester  Pinhorn.  I  remained  with  it,  and  pre- 
pared it,  at  the  proper  time,  for  the  grave.  It  was  laid  in  the  cofiin 
in  my  presence,  and  I  after^'ard  saw  the  coffin  screwed  down,  pre- 
vious to  its  removal.  When  that  had  been  done,  and  not  before,  I 
received  what  was  due  to  me,  and  left  the  house.  I  refer  persons 
who  may  wish  to  investigate  my  character  to  Mr.  Goodricke.  He 
will  bear  witness  that  I  can  be  trusted  to  tell  the  tnith. 

(Signed)  Jane  Gould. 


366  'IIIK    WOMAX    IX    WHITE. 

4,  The  Narrative  of  the  Tombstone. 
Sacred  to  tlic  Memory  of  Laura,  Lady  Glyde,  wife  of  Sir  Percival 
Glyde,  Bart.,  of  Blackwater  Park,  Hampshire,  and  daughter  of  the 
hite  Philij)  Fairlic,  Esq.,  of  Limmeridge  House,  in  this  parish.  Born, 
March  27th,  1829 ;  married,  December  22d,  1849 ;  died,  July  25th, 
1850. 

5.  The  Narrative  of  "Walter  Hartright. 

Early  in  the  summer  of  1850  I  and  my  surviving  companions 
left  the  wilds  and  forests  of  Central  America  for  home.  Arrived  at 
the  coast,  we  took  ship  there  for  England.  The  vessel  was  wrecked 
in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  ;  I  was  among  the  few  saved  from  the  sea.  It 
was  my  third  escape  from  peril  of  death.  Death  by  disease,  death 
by  the  Indians,  death  by  drowning — all  three  had  approached  me ; 
all  three  had  passed  me  by. 

The  survivors  of  the  wreck  were  rescued  by  an  American  vessel, 
bound  for  Liverpool.  The  ship  reached  her  port  on  the  thirteenth 
day  of  October,  1850.  We  landed  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  I  ar- 
rived in  London  the  same  night. 

These  pages  are  not  the  record  of  my  wanderings  and  my  dangers 
away  from  home.  The  motives  which  led  me  from  my  country  and 
my  friends  to  a  new  world  of  adventure  and  peril  are  known.  From 
that  self-imposed  exile  I  came  back,  as  I  had  hoped,  prayed,  believed 
I  should  come  back,  a  changed  man.  In  the  waters  of  a  new  life  I 
had  tempered  my  nature  afresh.  In  the  stern  school  of  extremity 
and  danger  my  will  had  learned  to  be  strong,  my  heart  to  be  reso- 
lute, my  mind  to  rely  on  itself.  I  had  gone  out  to  fly  from  my  own 
future.     I  came  back  to  face  it,  as  a  man  should. 

To  face  it  with  that  inevitable  suppression  of  myself  which  I 
knew  it  would  demand  from  me.  I  had  parted  with  the  worst  bit- 
terness of  tlie  past,  but  not  with  my  heart's  remembrance  of  the  sor- 
row and  the  tenderness  of  that  memorable  time.  I  had  not  ceased 
to  feel  the  one  irreparable  disappointment  of  my  life — I  had  only 
learned  to  bear  it.  Laura  Fairlie  was  in  all  my  thoughts  when  the 
ship  bore  me  away  and  I  looked  my  last  at  England.  Laura  Fairlie 
was  in  all  my  thoughts  when  the  ship  brought  me  back  and  the 
morning  light  showed  the  friendly  shore  in  view. 

My  pen  traces  the  old  letters  as  my  heart  goes  back  to  the  old 
love.  I  write  of  her  as  Laura  Fairlie  still.  It  is  hard  to  think  of 
her,  it  is  hard  to  speak  of  her,  by  her  husband's  name. 

There  are  no  more  words  of  explanation  to  add,  on  my  appearing 
for  tlie  second  time  in  these  pages.  This  narrative,  if  I  have  the 
strength  and  the  courage  to  write  it,  may  now  go  on. 


THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE.  357 

My  first  anxieties  and  first  hopes,  when  the  morning  came,  cen- 
tred in  my  mother  and  my  sister.  I  felt  the  necessity  of  preparing 
them  for  the  joy  and  surprise  of  my  return,  after  an  absence  during 
which  it  had  been  impossible  for  them  to  receive  any  tidings  of  me 
for  months  past.  Early  in  the  morning  I  sent  a  letter  to  the  Hamp- 
stead  Cottage,  and  followed  it  myself  in  an  hour's  time. 

When  the  first  meeting  was  over,  when  our  quiet  and  composure 
of  other  days  began  gradually  to  return  to  us,  I  saw  something  in 
my  mother's  face  wliich  told  me  that  a  secret  oppression  lay  heavy 
on  her  heart.  There  was  more  than  love,  there  was  sorrow  in  the 
anxious  eyes  that  looked  on  me  so  tenderly ;  there  was  pity  in  the 
kind  hand  that  slowly  and  fondly  strengthened  its  hold  on  mine. 
We  had  no  concealments  from  each  other.  She  knew  how  the  hope 
of  my  life  had  been  wrecked— she  knew  why  I  had  left  her.  It 
w^as  on  my  lips  to  ask,  as  composedly  as  I  could,  if  any  letter  had 
come  for  me  from  Miss  Halcombe — if  there  was  any  news  of  her  sis- 
ter that  I  might  hear.  But  when  I  looked  in  my  mother's  face  I 
lost  courage  to  put  the  question  even  in  that  guarded  form.  I 
could  only  say,  doubtingly  and  restrainedly, 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  me." 

My  sister,  who  had  been  sitting  opposite  to  us,  rose  suddenly, 
without  a  word  of  explanation — rose,  and  left  the  room. 

My  mother  moved  closer  to  me  on  the  sofa,  and  put  her  arms 
round  my  neck.  Those  fond  arms  trembled ;  the  tears  flowed  fiist 
over  the  foithful  loving  face. 

"  Walter!"  she  whispered — "my  ov»m  darling  I  my  heart  is  heavy 
for  you.  Oh,  my  son !  my  son !  try  to  remember  that  I  am  still 
left !" 

My  head  sank  on  her  bosom.  She  had  said  all,  in  saying  those 
words. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  third  day  since  my  return — the  morning 
of  the  sixteenth  of  October. 

I  had  remained  with  them  at  the  Cottage ;  I  had  tried  hard  not 
to  imbitter  the  happiness  of  my  return,  to  tJiern^  as  it  was  imbittered 
to  me.  I  had  done  all  man  could  to  rise  after  the  shock,  and  accept 
my  life  resignedly — to  let  my  great  sorrow  come  in  tenderness  to  my 
heart,  and  not  in  despair.  It  was  useless  and  hopeless.  No  tears 
soothed  my  aching  eyes ;  no  relief  came  to  me  from  my  sister's  sym- 
pathy or  my  mother's  love. 

On  that  third  morning  I  opened  my  heart  to  them.  At  last  the 
words  passed  my  lips  which  I  had  longed  to  speak  on  the  day  when 
my  mother  told  me  of  her  death. 

"  Let  me  go  away  alone  for  a  little  while,"  I  said.  ''  I  shall  bear 
ii  better  when  I  have  looked  once  more  at  the  place  where  I  first  saw 


366  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

her — when  I  have  knelt  and  prayed  by  the  grave  where  they  have 
laid  her  to  rest." 

I  departed  on  my  journey — my  journey  to  the  grave  of  Laura 
Fairlie. 

It  was  a  quiet  autumn  afternoon  when  I  stopped  at  the  solitary 
station,  and  set  forth  alone,  on  foot,  by  the  well-remembered  road. 
The  waning  sun  w^as  shining  faintly  through  thin  white  clouds; 
the  air  was  warm  and  still;  the  peacefulness  of  the  lonely  coun- 
try was  overshadowed  and  saddened  by  the  influence  of  the  falling 
year. 

I  reached  the  moor ;  I  stood  again  on  the  brow  of  the  hill ;  I  look- 
ed on,  along  the  path — and  there  were  the  familiar  garden  trees  in 
the  distance,  the  clear  sweeping  semicircle  of  the  drive,  the  high 
white  walls  of  Lmimeridge  House.  The  chances  and  changes,  the 
w^^nderings  and  dangers  of  months  and  months  past,  all  shrank  and 
shriveled  to  nothing  in  my  mind.  It  was  like  yesterday  since  my 
feet  had  last  trodden  the  fragrant  heatliy  ground  I  I  thought  I 
should  see  her  coming  to  meet  me,  with  her  little  straw  hat  shading 
her  face,  her  simple  ckess  fluttering  in  the  air,  and  her  well-fllled 
sketch-book  ready  in  her  hand. 

Oh,  Death,  thou  hast  thy  sting  !  oh.  Grave,  thou  hast  thy  victory  ! 

I  turned  aside ;  and  there,  below  me  in  the  glen,  was  the  lonesome 
gray  church ;  the  porch  where  I  had  waited  for  the  coming  of  the 
woman  in  white ;  the  hills  encircling  the  quiet  burial-ground ;  the 
brook  bubbling  cold  over  its  stony  bed.  There  was  the  marble 
cross,  fair  and  white,  at  the  head  of  the  tomb — the  tomb  that  now 
rose  over  mother  and  daughter  alike. 

I  approached  the  grave.  I  crossed  once  more  the  low  stone  stile, 
and  bared  my  head  as  I  touched  the  sacred  ground.  Sacred  to 
gentleness  and  goodness ;  sacred  to  reverence  and  grief 

I  stopped  before  the  pedestal  from  which  the  cross  rose.  On  one 
side  of  it,  on  the  side  nearest  to  me,  the  newly-cut  inscription  met 
my  eyes — the  hard,  clear,  cruel  black  letters  which  told  the  story  of 
her  life  and  death.  I  tried  to  read  them.  I  did  read  as  far  as  the 
name.  "  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Laura — "  The  kind  blue  eyes 
dim  with  tears ;  the  fair  head  drooping  wearily ;  the  innocent  part- 
ing words  which  implored  me  to  leave  her — oh,  for  a  happier  last 
memory  of  her  than  this ;  the  memory  I  took  away  with  me,  the 
memory  I  bring  back  with  me  to  her  grave  ! 

A  second  time  I  tried  to  read  the  inscription.  I  saw,  at  the  end, 
the  date  of  her  death  ;  and  above  it — 

Above  it,  there  were  lines  on  the  marble,  there  was  a  name  among 
them,  which  disturbed  my  thoughts  of  her.  I  went  round  to  the 
other  side  of  the  grave,  where  there  was  nothing  to  read — nothing 
of  caithly  vileness  to  force  its  way  l^etween  her  spirit  and  mine. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  359 

I  knelt  clown  by  the  tomb.  I  laid  my  hands,  I  laid  my  head,  on 
the  broad  white  stone,  and  closed  my  weary  eyes  on  the  earth  around, 
on  the  light  above.  I  let  her  come  back  to  me.  Oh,  my  love  I  my 
love  !  my  heart  may  speak  to  you  now  !  It  is  yesterday  again,  since 
we  parted — yesterday,  since  your  dear  hand  lay  in  mine — yesterday, 
since  my  eyes  lookecl  their  last  on  you.     My  love,  my  love  ! 

Time  had  flowed  on ;  and  Silence  had  fallen,  like  thick  night,  over 
its  course. 

The  first  sound  that  came,  after  the  heavenly  peace,  rustled  faintly, 
like  a  passing  Ijreath  of  air,  over  the  grass  of  the  bm*ial-ground.  I 
heard  it  nearing  me  slowly,  until  it  came  changed  to  my  car — came 
like  footsteps  moving  onward — then  stopj)ed. 

I  looked  up. 

The  sunset  was  near  at  hand.  The  clouds  had  parted ;  the  slant- 
ing light  fell  mellow  over  the  hills.  The  last  of  the  day  was  cold 
and  clear  and  still  in  the  quiet  valley  of  the  dead. 

Beyond  me,  in  the  bmial-ground,  standing  together  in  the  cold 
clearness  of  the  lower  light,  I  saw  two  women.  They  were  looking 
toward  the  tomlo — looking  toward  me. 

Two. 

They  came  a  little  on,  and  stopped  again.  Their  veils  were  down, 
and  hid  their  faces  from  me.  When  tljey  stopped,  one  of  them 
raised  her  veil.  In  the  still  evening  light  I  saw  the  face  of  Marian 
Halcombe. 

Changed,  changed  as  if  years  had  passed  over  it  I  The  eyes  large 
and  wild,  and  looking  at  me  with  a  strange  terror  in  them.  The 
face  worn  and  wasted  piteously.  Pain  and  fear  and  grief  written  on 
her  as  with  a  brand. 

I  took  one  step  toward  her  from  the  grave.  She  never  moved — 
she  never  spoke.  The  veiled  woman  with  her  cried  out  faintly.  I 
stopped.  The  springs  of  my  life  fell  low ;  and  the  shuddering  of 
an  unutterable  dread  crept  over  me  from  head  to  foot. 

The  woman  with  the  veiled  face  moved  away  from  her  compan- 
ion, and  came  toward  me  slowly.  Left  by  herself,  standing  by  her- 
self, Marian  Halcombe  spoke.  It  was  the  voice  that  I  remembered 
— the  voice  not  changed,  like  the  frightened  eyes  and  the  wasted 
face. 

''  My  dream  I  my  dream  I"  I  heard  her  say  those  words  softly, 
in  the  awful  silence.  She  sank  on  her  knees,  and  raised  her  clasped 
hands  to  the  heaven.  '*  Father  I  strengthen  him.  Father  I  help 
him,  in  his  hour  of  need.'' 

The  woman  came  on,  slowly  and  silently  came  on.  I  looked  at 
her — at  her,  and  at  none  other,  from  that  moment. 

The  voice  that  was  prapng  for^e  faltered  and  sank  low — then 


360  THE    WOMAN    IN    WllITK 

rose  on  a  sudden,  and  called  affrightedly,  called  despairingly  to  mc 
to  come  away. 

But  tlic  veiled  woman  had  possession  of  me,  body  and  soul.  She 
stopped  on  one  side  of  the  grave.  We  stood  face  to  face,  with  the 
tombstone  between  us.  She  was  close  to  the  inscription  on  the 
side  of  the  pedestal.     Her  gown  touched  the  black  letters. 

The  voice  came  nearer,  and  rose  and  rose  more  passionately  still. 
"  Hide  your  face !  don't  look  at  her !  Oh,  for  God's  sake  spare 
him—!" 

The  woman  lifted  her  veil. 

"  Sacred  to  the  Memory  of  Laura,  Lady  Glyde — " 

Laura,  Lady  Glyde,  was  standing  by  the  inscription,  and  was  look- 
ing at  me  over  the  grave. 


LAURA,  LADY   GLTDE,  WAS    STANDING  BY  THE    INSCRIPTION,  AND   WAS 
LOOKING  AT  ME    OVER   THE    GRAVE. 


16 


TUE    WOMAN    IN    WUITE.  3b. 


THE  THIRD  EPOCH. 


The  Story  continued  hy  Walter  Hartright. 

I. 
I  OPEN  a  new  page.  I  advance  my  narrative  by  one  week. 
The  history  of  the  interval  which  I  thus  pass  over  must  remain 
unrecorded.  My  heart  turns  faint,  my  mind  sinks  in  darkness  and 
confusion,  when  I  think  of  it.  This  must  not  be,  if  I,  who  write, 
am  to  guide,  as  I  ought,  you  who  read.  This  must  not  be,  if  the 
ckie  that  leads  through  the  windings  of  the  Story  is  to  remain,  from 
end  to  end,  untangled  in  my  hands. 

A  life  suddenly  changed — its  whole  purpose  created  afresh;  its 
hopes  and  fears,  its  struggles,  its  interests,  and  its  sacrifices,  all  turn- 
ed at  once  and  forever  into  a  new  direction — this  is  the  prospect 
which  now  opens  before  me,  like  the  burst  of  view  from  a  mount- 
ain's top.  I  left  my  narrative  in  the  quiet  shadow  of  Limmeridge 
church :  I  resume  it,  one  week  later,  in  the  stir  and  turmoil  of  a 
London  street. 

The  street  is  in  a  populous  and  a  poor  neighborhood.  The 
ground-floor  of  one  of  the  houses  in  it  is  occupied  by  a  small  news- 
vender's  shop  ;  and  the  first  floor  and  the  second  are  let  as  furnished 
lodgings  of  the  humblest  kind. 

I  have  taken  those  two  floors  in  an  assumed  name.  On  the  up- 
per floor  I  live,  with  a  room  to  work  in,  a  room  to  sleep  in.  On  the 
lower  floor,  under  the  same  assumed  name,  two  women  live,  who 
are  described  as  my  sisters.  I  get  my  bread  by  di'awing  and  en- 
graving on  wood  for  the  cheap  periodicals.  My  sisters  are  supposed 
to  help  me  by  taking  in  a  little  needle-work.  Our  poor  place  of 
abode,  our  humble  calling,  our  assumed  relationship,  and  our  as- 
sumed name,  are  all  used  alike  as  a  means  of  hiding  us  in  the  house- 
forest  of  London.  "We  are  numbered  no  longer  with  the  people 
whose  lives  are  open  and  known.  I  am  an  obscure,  unnoticed  man, 
without  patron  or  friend  to  help  me.  Marian  Halcombe  is  nothing 
now  but  my  eldest  sister,  who  jsrovides  foFoufTtmr^rchold  wants  by 
the  toil  of  her  own  hands,     We  two,  in  the  estimation  of  others,  are 


d64  THE    WOMAN    IN    "WHITE. 

at  once  the  dupes  and  the  agents  of  a  daring  imposture.  We  are 
supposed  to  be  the  accomplices  of  mad  Anne  Catherick,  who  claims 
the  name,  the  place,  and  the  living  personality  of  dead  Lady  Glyde. 

Tliat  is  our  situation.  That  is  the  changed  aspect  in  which  we 
three  must  appear,  henceforth,  in  this  narrative,  for  many  and  many 
a  page  to  come. 

In  the  eye  of  reason  and  of  law,  in  the  estimation  of  relatives  and 
friends,  according  to  every  received  formality  of  civilized  society, 
"  Laura,  Lady  Glyde,"  lay  buried  with  her  mother  in  Limmeridge 
church-yard.  Tom  in  her  own  lifetime  from  the  list  of  the  living, 
the  daughter  of  Philip  Fairlie  and  the  wife  of  Percival  Glyde  might 
still  exist  for  her  sister,  might  still  exist  for  me,  but  to  all  the  world 
besides  she  was  dead.  Dead  to  her  uncle,  who  had  renounced  her  ; 
dead  to  the  servants  of  the  house,  who  had  failed  to  recognize  her ; 
dead  to  the  persons  in  authority  who  had  transmitted  her  fortune 
to  her  husband  and  her  aunt ;  dead  to  my  mother  and  my  sister, 
who  believed  me  to  be  the  dupe  of  an  adventuress  and  the  victim 
of  a  fraud ;  socially,  morally,  legally — dead. 

And  yet  alive !  Alive  in  poverty  and  in  hiding.  Alive,  ^dth  the 
poor  drawing- master  to  fight  her  battle,  and  to  win  the  way  back 
for  her  to  her  place  in  the  world  of  living  beings. 

Did  no  suspicion,  excited  by  my  own  knowledge  of  Anne  Cath- 
erick's  resemblance  to  her,  cross  my  mind  when  her  face  was  first 
revealed  to  me  ?  Kot  the  shadow  of  a  suspicion,  from  the  moment 
when  she  lifted  her  veil  by  the  side  of  the  inscription  which  record- 
ed her  death. 

Before  the  sun  of  that  day  had  set,  before  the  last  glimpse  of  the 
home  which  was  closed  against  her  had  passed  from  cur  view,  the 
forewell  words  I  spoke  when  we  parted  at  Limmeridge  House  had 
been  recalled  by  lx)th  of  us,  repeated  by  me,  recognized  by  her.  "  If 
ever  the  time  comes  when  the  devotion  of  my  whole  heart  and  soul 
and  strength  will  give  you  a  moment's  happiness,  or  spare  you  a 
moment's  sorrow,  will  you  try  to  remember  the  poor  drawing-mas- 
ter who  has  taught  you  ?"  She,  who  now  remembered  so  little  of 
the  trouble  and  ten'or  of  a  later  time,  remembered  those  words,  and 
laid  her  poor  head  innocently  and  trustingly  on  the  bosom  of  the 
man  who  had  spoken  them.  In  that  moment,  when  she  called  me 
by  my  name,  when  she  said,  "  They  have  tried  to  make  me  forget 
every  thing,  Walter ;  but  I  remember  Marian,  and  I  remember  yau — " 
in  that  moment,  I,  who  had  long  since  given  her  my  love,  gave  her 
my  life,  and  thanked  God  that  it  was  mine  to  bestow  on  her.  Yes ! 
the  time  had  come.  From  thousands  on  thousands  of  miles  away; 
through  forest  and  wilderness,  where  companions  stronger  than  \ 
had  fallen  by  my  side ;  through  peril  of  death  thrice  renewed,  and 
thrice  escaped,  the  Hand  that  leads  men  on  the  dark  road  to  the 


THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE.  365 

future,  had  led  mc  to  meet  that  time.  Forlorn  and  disowned,  sorely 
tried  and  sadly  changed ;  her  beauty  faded,  her  mind  clouded ;  rob- 
bed of  her  station  in  the  world,  of  her  place  among  living  creatures 
-—the  devotion  I  had  jDromised,  the  devotion  of  my  whole  heart  and\ 
souTand  strength,  might  be  laid  blamelessly,  now,  at  those  dear  feet. 
In  the  right  of  her  calamity,  in  the  right  of  her  friendlessness,  she 
was  mine  at  last !  Mine  to  support,  to  protect,  to  cherish,  to  restore. 
Mine  to  love  and  honor  as  father  and  brother  both.  Mine  to  vin- 
dicate through  all  risks  and  all  sacrifices — through  the  hopeless 
struggle  against  Rank  and  Power,  through  the  long  fight  with  arm- 
ed deceit  and  fortified  Success,  through  the  waste  of  my  reputation, 
through  the  loss  of  my  friends,  through  the  hazard  of  my  life. 


Mr  position  is  defined;  my  motives  are  acknowledged.  The 
story  of  Marian  and  the  story  of  Laura  must  come  next. 

I  shall  relate  both  narratives,  not  in  the  words  (often  interrupted, 
often  inevitably  confused)  of  the  speakers  themselves,  but  in  the 
w^ords  of  the  brief,  plain,  studiously  simple  abstract  which  I  com- 
mitted to  writing  for  my  own  guidance,  and  for  the  guidance  of 
my  legal  adviser.  So  the  tangled  web  wdll  be  most  speedily  and 
most  intelligibly  unrolled. 

The  story  of  Marian  begins  where  the  narrative  of  the  house- 
keeper at  Blackwater  Park  left  oflf. 

On  Lady  Glyde's  departure  from  her  husband's  house,  the  fact  of 
that  departure,  and  the  necessary  statement  of  the  circumstances 
under  which  it  had  taken  place,  were  communicated  to  Miss  Hal- 
combe  by  the  housekeeper.  It  was  not  till  some  days  afterward 
(how  many  days  exactly,  Mrs,  Michelson,  in  the  absence  of  any 
written  memorandum  on  the  subject,  could  not  undertake  to  say) 
that  a  letter  arrived  from  Madame  Fosco  announcing  Lady  Glyde's 
Budden  death  in  Count  Fosco's  house.  The  letter  avoided  men- 
tioning dates,  and  left  it  to  Mrs.  Michelson's  discretion  to  break 
the  news  at  once  to  Miss  Halcombe,  or  to  defer  doing  so  until  that 
lady's  health  should  be  more  firmly  established. 

Having  consulted  Mr.  Dawson  (who  had  been  himself  delayed, 
by  ill  health,  in  resuming  his  attendance  at  Blackwater  Park),  Mrs. 
Michelson,  by  the  doctor's  advice,  and  in  the  doctor's  presence, 
communicated,  the  news,  either  on  the  day  when  the  letter  was  re- 
ceived or  on  the  day  after.  It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  here  upon 
the  efiect  which  the  intelligence  of  Lady  Glyde's  sudden  death  pro- 
duced on  her  sister.  It  is  only  useful  to  the  present  purjjose  to  say 
that  she  was  not  able  to  travel  for  more  than  three  weeks  afterward. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  she  proceeded  to  London,  accompanied  by 


366  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

tlie  housekeeper.  They  parted  there,  Mrs.  Michelson  previously  in- 
lormiiii?  Miss  Ilalcomlx;  of  her  address,  in  case  they  might  wish  to 
comnumicatc  at  a  future  i->eriod. 

On  ])arting  with  the  housekeeper,  Miss  Halcomljc  went  at  once  to 
the  olhcc  of  Messrs.  Gilmore  and  Kyrle,  to  consult  witli  the  latter 
f^entlcman,  in  Mr.  Gilmore's  absence.  She  mentioned  to  Mr.  Kyrle 
— what  she  had  thought  it  desirable  to  conceal  from  every  one  else 
( Mrs.  ]\Iichelson  included) — her  suspicion  of  the  circumstanc-es  un- 
der which  Lady  Glyde  was  said  to  have  met  her  death.  Mr.  Kyrle, 
wlio  had  pre\aously  given  friendly  proof  of  his  anxiety  to  serve  Misa 
llalcombe,  at  once  undertook  to  make  such  inquiries  as  the  delicato 
and  dangerous  nature  of  the  investigation  proposed  to  him  would 
permit. 

To  exhaust  this  part  of  the  subject  before  going  further,  it  may 
]ye  here  mentioned  that  Count  Fosco  offered  eveiy  facility  to  Mr. 
Kyrle,  on  that  gentleman's  stating  that  he  was  sent  by  Miss  Hal- 
combe  to  collect  such  particulars  as  Ijad  not  yet  reached  her  of 
Lady  Glyde's  decease.  Mr.  Kyrle  was  placed  in  communication 
with  tlie  medical  man,  Mr.  Goodricke,  and  with  the  two  servants. 
In  the  absence  of  any  means  of  ascertaining  the  exact  date  of  Lady 
y  Glyde's  departure  from  Blackwater  Park,  the  result  of  the  doctor's 
and  the  servant's  evidence,  and  of  the  volunteered  statements  of 
Count  Fosco  and  his  wife,  was  conclusive  to  the  mind  of  Mr.  Kyrle. 
He  could  only  assume  that  the  intensity  of  Miss  Halcombe's  suffei- 
ing  under  the  loss  of  her  sister  had  misled  her  judgment  in  a  most 
deplorable  manner,  and  he  wrote  her  word  that  the  shocking  suspi- 
cion to  which  she  had  alluded  in  his  presence  was,  in  his  opinion, 
destitute  of  the  smallest  fragment  of  foundation  in  truth.  Thus  the 
investigation  by  Mr.  Gilmore's  partner  began  and  ended. 

Meanwhile  Miss  Halcombe  had  returned  to  Limmeridge  House, 
and  had  there  collected  all  the  additional  information  which  she 
was  able  to  obtain. 

Mr.  Fairlie  had  received  his  first  intimation  of  his  niece's  death 
from  his  sister,  Madame  Fosco,  this  letter  also  not  containing  any 
exact  reference  to  dates.  He  had  sanctioned  his  sister  s  proposal 
that  the  deceased  lady  should  be  laid  in  her  mother's  grave,  in  Lim- 
meridge church-yard.  Count  Fosco  had  accompanied  the  remains 
to  Cumberland,  and  had  attended  the  funeral  at  Limmeridge,  which 
took  place  on  the  30th  of  July.  It  was  followed,  as  a  mark  of  re- 
spect, by  all  tlie  inhabitants  of  the  village  and  the  neighborhood. 
On  the  next  day  the  inscription  (originally  drawn  out,  it  was  said, 
l)y  the  aunt  of  the  deceased  lady,  and  submitted  for  approval  to  her 
brother,  Mr.  Fairlie)  was  engraved  on  one  side  of  the  monument, 
over  the  tomb. 

On  the  day  of  the  funeral,  and  for  one  day  after  it,  Count  Fosco 


THE   WOMAN   IN   WHITE.  367 

had  been  received  as  a  guest  at  Limineridge  House ;  but  no  inter- 
view had  taken  place  between  Mr.  Fairlie  and  himself,  by  the  for- 
mer gentleman's  desire.  They  had  communicated  by  writing,  and 
through  this  medium  Count  Fosco  had  made  Mr.  Fairlie  acquainted 
with  the  details  of  his  niece's  last  illness  and  death.  The  letter 
presenting  this  information  added  no  new  facts  to  the  facts  already 
known ;  but  one  very  remarkable  paragraph  was  contained  in  the 
postscript.  It  referred  to  Anne  Catherick. 
;    The  substance  of  the  paragraph  in  question  was  as  follows : 

It  first  informed  Mr.  Fairlie  that  Anne  Catherick  (of  whom  he 
might  hear  full  particulars  fi'om  Miss  Halcombe  when  she  reached 
Limmeridge)  had  been  traced  and  recovered  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Blackwater  Park,  and  had  been,  for  the  second  time,  placed  un- 
der the  charge  of  the  medical  man  from  whose  custody  she  had 
once  escaped. 

This  was  the  first  part  of  the  postscript.  The  second  part  warned 
Mr.  Fairlie  that  Anne  Catherick's  mental  malady  had  been  aggra- 
vated by  her  long  freedom  from  control,  and  that  the  insane  hatred 
and  distrust  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  which  had  been  one  of  her  most 
marked  delusions  in  former  times,  still  existed,  under  a  newly-ac- 
quired form.  The  unfortunate  woman's  last  idea  in  connection 
with  Sir  Percival  was  the  idea  of  annoying  and  distressing  him, 
and  of  elevating  herself,  as  she  supposed,  in  the  estimation  of  the 
patients  and  nurses,  by  assuming  the  character  of  his  deceased  wife, 
the  scheme  of  this  personation  having  evidently  occurred  to  her 
after  a  stolen  interview  which  she  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  with 
Lady  Glyde,  and  at  which  she  had  observed  the  extraordinary  ac- 
cidental likeness  between  the  deceased  lady  and  herself  It  was  to 
the  last  degree  improbable  that  she  would  succeed  a  second  time  in 
escaping  from  the  Asylum  ;  but  it  was  just  possible  she  might  find 
some  means  of  annoying  the  late  Lady  Glyde's  relatives  with  letters  ; 
and,  in  that  case,  Mr.  Fairlie  was  warned  beforehand  how  to  receive 
them. 

The  postscript,  expressed  in  these  terms,  was  shown  to  Miss  Hal- 
combe when  she  arrived  at  Limmeridge.  There  Avere  also  placed 
in  her  possession  the  clothes  Lady  Glyde  had  worn,  and  the  other 
eifects  she  had  brought  with  her  to  her  aunt's  house.  They  had 
been  carefully  collected  and  sent  to  Cumberland  by  Madame  Fosco. 

Such  was  the  posture  of  afl:airs  when  Miss  Halcombe  reached 
Limmeridge,  in  the  early  part  of  September. 

Shortly  afterward  she  was  confined  to  her  room  by  a  relapse,  her 
weakened  physical  energies  giving  way  under  the  severe  mental 
afl3.iction  from  which  she  was  now  suflering.  On  getting  stronger 
again,  in  a  month's  time,  her  suspicion  of  the  circumstances  de- 
scribed as  attending  her  sister's  death  still  remained  unshaken. 


3G8  TIIK    WOMAN'    I.\    WHITE. 

She  had  heard  nothing,  in  the  interim,  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde ;  but 
letters  had  reached  her  from  Madame  Fosco,  making  the  most  aflfec- 
tionate  inquiries  on  the  part  of  her  husband  and  herself.  Instead  of 
answering  tlitse  letters,  Miss  Halcombe  caused  the  house  in  St.  John's 
Wood,  and  the  proceedings  of  its  inmates,  to  be  privately  watched. 

Nothing  doubtful  was  discovered.  The  same  result  attended  the 
uext  investigations,  which  were  secretly  instituted,  on  the  subject  of 
Mrs.  Rul)elle.  She  had  amved  in  London  about  six  months  before, 
with  her  husband.  They  had  come  from  Lyons,  and  they  had  taken 
a  house  in  the  neighborhood  of  Leicester  Square,  to  be  fitted  up  as  a 
boarding-house  for  foreigners,  who  were  expected  to  visit  England 
in  large  numbers,  to  see  the  Exhibition  of  1851.  Nothing  was 
known  against  husband  or  wife  in  the  neighborhood.  They  were 
quiet  people,  and  they  had  paid  their  way  honestly  up  to  the  present 
time.  The  final  inquiries  related  to  Sir  Percival  Glyde.  He  was 
settled  in  Paris,  and  li\'ing  there  quietly  in  a  small  circle  of  English 
and  French  friends. 

Foiled  at  all  points,  but  still  not  able  to  rest,  Miss  Halcombe  next 
determined  to  visit  the  Asj-lum  in  which  she  then  supposed  Anne 
Catherick  to  be  for  the  second  time  confined.  She  had  felt  a  strong 
curiosity  about  the  woman  in  former  days  ;  and  she  was  now  doubly 
interested — first,  in  ascertaining  whether  the  report  of  Anne  Cather- 
ick's  attempted  personation  of  Lady  Glyde  was  true ;  and,  secondly 
(if  it  proved  to  be  true),  in  discovering  for  herself  what  the  poor 
creature's  real  motives  were  for  attempting  the  deceit. 

Although  Count  Fosco's  letter  to  Mr.  Fairlie  did  not  mention  the 
address  of  the  Asylum,  that  important  omission  cast  no  difiiculties 
in  Miss  Halcombe's  way.  When  Mr.  Hartright  had  met  Anne 
Catherick  at  Limmeridge,  she  had  informed  him  of  the  locality  in 
which  the  house  was  situated ;  and  Miss  Halcombe  had  noted  down 
the  direction  in  her  diary,  with  all  the  other  particulars  of  the  inter- 
view, exactly  as  she  heard  them  from  Mr.  Hartright's  own  lips.  Ac- 
cordingly, she  looked  back  at  the  entiT,  and  extracted  the  address ; 
furnished  herself  with  the  Count's  letter  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  as  a  species 
of  credential  which  might  be  useful  to  her ;  and  started  by  herself 
for  the  Asylum,  on  the  eleventh  of  October. 

She  passed  the  night  of  the  eleventh  in  London.  It  had  been  her 
intention  to  sleep  at  the  house  inhabited  by  Lady  Glyde's  old  gov- 
erness ;  but  3Irs.  Yesey's  agitation  at  the  sight  of  her  lost  pupil's 
nearest  and  dearest  friend  was  so  distressing,  that  Miss  Halcombe 
considerately  refrained  from  remaining  in  her  presence,  and  removed 
to  a  respectable  boarding-house  in  the  neighborliood,  recommended 
by  ]\Irs.  Vesey's  married  sister.  The  next  day  she  proceeded  to  the 
Asylum,  which  was  situated  not  far  from  London,  on  the  northern 
side  of  the  metroijolis. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  369 

She  was  immediately  admitted  to  see  tlie  proprietor. 

At  first  he  appeared  to  be  decidedly  unwilling  to  let  her  commu- 
nicate T^ith  his  patient.  But  on  her  showing  him  the  postscript  to 
Count  Fosco's  letter — on  her  reminding  him  that  she  was  the  "  Miss 
Halcombe"  there  referred  to;  that  she  was  a  near  relative  of  the 
deceased  Lady  Glyde ;  and  that  she  was  therefore  naturally  inter- 
ested, for  family  reasons,  in  observing  for  herself  the  extent  of  Anne 
Catherick's  delusion  in  relation  to  her  late  sister — the  tone  and  man- 
ner of  the  owner  of  the  Asylum  altered,  and  he  withdrew  his  objec- 
tions. He  probably  felt  that  a  continued  refusal,  under  these  circum- 
stances, would  not  only  be  an  act  of  discourtesy  in  itself,  but  would 
also  imply  that  the  proceedings  in  his  establishment  were  not  of  a 
nature  to  bear  investigation  by  respectable  strangers. 

Miss  Halcombe's  own  impression  was  that  the  owner  of  the  Asy- 
lum had  not  been  received  into  the  confidence  of  Sir  Percival  and 
the  Count.  His  consenting  at  all  to  let  her  visit  his  patient  seemed 
to  afford  one  proof  of  this,  and  his  readiness  in  making  admissions 
which  could  scarcely  have  escaped  the  lips  of  an  accomplice  certain- 
ly appeared  to  furnish  another. 

For  example,  in  the  course  of  the  introductory  conversation  which 
took  place,  he  informed  Miss  Halcombe  that  Anne  Catherick  had 
been  brought  back  to  him,  with  the  necessary  order  and  certificates, 
by  Count  Fosco,  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  July,  the  Count  also  pro- 
ducing a  letter  of  explanations  and  instructions  signed  by  Sir  Perci- 
val Glyde.  On  receiving  his  inmate  again,  the  proprietor  of  the 
Asylum  acknowledged  that  he  had  observed  some  curious  personal 
changes  in  her.  Such  changes,  no  doubt,  were  not  without  prece- 
dent in  his  exiDerience  of  persons  mentally  afilicted.  Insane  people 
were  often,  at  one  time,  outwardly  as  well  as  inwardly,  unlike  what 
they  were  at  another ;  the  change  from  better  to  worse,  or  from 
worse  to  better,  in  the  madness,  having  a  necessary  tendency  to  pro- 
duce alterations  of  appearance  externally.  He  allowed  for  these; 
and  he  allowed  also  for  the  modification  in  the  form  of  Anne  Cath- 
erick's delusion,  which  was  reflected,  no  doubt,  in  her  manner  and 
expression.  But  he  was  still  perplexed,  at  times,  by  certain  difier- 
ences  between  his  patient  before  she  had  escaped  and  his  patient 
since  she  had  been  brought  back.  Those  differences  were  too  mi- 
nute to  be  described.  He  could  not  say,  of  course,  that  she  was  ab- 
solutely altered  in  height  or  shape  or  complexion,  or  in  the  color  of 
her  hair  and  eyes,  or  in  the  general  form  of  her  face  :  the  change 
was  something  that  he  felt,  more  than  something  that  he  saw.  In 
short,  the  case  had  been  a  puzzle  from  the  first,  and  one  more  per- 
plexity was  added  to  it  now. 

It  can  not  be  said  that  this  conversation  led  o  the  result  of  even 
partially  preparing  Miss  Halcombe's  mind  for  what  was  to  come. 

16* 


370  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

liut  it  produced,  novertheless,  a  very  serious  efFect  upon  her.  She 
was  so  completely  unnerved  by  it  that  some  little  time  elapsed  before 
she  could  summon  composure  enough  to  follow  the  proprietor  of  the 
Asylum  to  that  part  of  the  house  in  which  the  inmates  were  confined. 

On  inquiry,  it  turned  out  that  the  supposed  Anne  Catherick  was 
then  taking  exercise  in  the  grounds  attached  to  the  establishment. 
One  of  the  nurses  volunteered  to  conduct  Miss  Halcombe  to  the 
place,  the  proprietor  of  the  Asylum  remaining  in  the  house  for  a  fev/ 
minutes  to  attend  to  a  case  which  required  his  services,  and  then 
engaging  to  join  his  visitor  in  the  grounds. 

The  nurse  led  Miss  Halcombe  to  a  distant  part  of  the  property, 
which  was  prettily  laid  out,  and,  after  looking  about  her  a  little, 
turned  into  a  turf  walk,  shaded  by  a  shrubl^ery  on  either  side. 
About  half-way  down  this  walk  two  women  were  slowly  approach- 
ing. The  nui*se  pointed  to  them  and  said,  "  There  is  Anne  Cather- 
ick, ma'am,  with  the  attendant  who  waits  on  her.  The  attendant 
will  answer  any  questions  you  wish  to  put."  With  those  words  the 
nurse  left  her,  to  return  to  the  duties  of  the  house, 
<^Miss  Halcombe  advanced  on  her  side,  and  the  women  advanced 
on  theirs.  When  they  were  within  a  dozen  paces  of  each  other,  one 
of  the  women  stopped  for  an  instant,  looked  eagerly  at  the  strange 
lady,  shook  off  the  nurse's  grasp  on  her,  and  the  next  moment  rush- 
ed into  Miss  Halcombe's  amis.  In  that  moment  Miss  Halcombe 
recognized  her  sister — recognized  the  dead-alive.^ 

Fortunately  for  the  success  of  the  measures  taken  subsequently, 
no  one  was  present  at  that  moment  but  the  nurse.  She  was  a  young 
woman  ;  and  she  was  so  startled  that  she  was  at  first  quite  incapable 
of  interfering.  When  she  Avas  able  to  do  so,  her  whole  services  were 
required  by  Miss  Halcombe,  who  had  for  the  moment  sunk  altogeth- 
er in  the  efibrt  to  keep  her  own  senses  under  the  shock  of  the  dis- 
covery. After  waiting  a  few  minutes  in  the  fresh  air  and  the  cool 
shade,  her  natural  energy  and  courage  helped  her  a  little,  and  she 
became  sufficiently  mistress  of  herself  to  feel  the  necessity  of  recall- 
ing  her  j^resence  of  mind  for  her  unfortunate  sister's  sake. 

She  obtained  permission  to  speak  alone  with  the  patient,  on  con- 
dition that  they  both  remained  well  within  the  nurse's  view.  There 
was  no  time  for  questions — there  was  only  time  for  Miss  Halcombe 
to  impress  on  the  unhappy  lady  the  necessity  of  controlling  herself, 
and  to  assure  her  of  immediate  help  and  rescue  if  she  did  so.  The 
prospect  of  ■•  scaping  from  the  Asylum  by  obedience  to  her  sister's 
directions  was  sufficient  to  quiet  Lady  Glyde,  and  to  make  her  un- 
derstand what  was  required  of  her.  Miss  Halcombe  next  returned 
to  the  nurse,  placed  all  the  gold  she  then  had  in  her  pocket  (three 
sovereigns)  in  the  nurse's  hands,  and  asked  when  and  where  she 
could  speak  to  her  alone. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  371 

The  woman  was  at  first  suqjrised  and  distrustful.  But  on  Miss 
Halcomlje's  declaring  tliat  she  only  wanted  to  put  some  questions 
which  she  was  too  much  agitated  to  ask  at  that  moment,  and  that 
she  had  no  intention  of  misleading  the  nurse  into  any  dereliction  of 
duty,  the  woman  took  the  money,  and  proposed  three  o'clock  on  the 
next  day  as  the  time  for  the  interview.  She  might  then  slip  out  for 
half  an  hour,  after  the  patients  had  dined,  and  she  would  meet  the 
lady  in  a  retired  place  outside  the  high  north  wall  which  screened 
!;he  grounds  of  the  house.  Miss  Halcombe  had  only  time  to  assent 
and  to  whisper  to  her  sister  that  she  should  hear  from  her  on  the 
next  day,  when  the  proprietor  of  the  Asylum  joined  them.  He  no- 
ticed his  visitor's  agitation,  which  Miss  Halcombe  accounted  for  by 
sapng  that  her  interview  with  Anne  Catherick  had  a  little  startled 
her  at  first.  She  took  her  leave  as  soon  after  as  possible — that  is  to 
say,  as  soon  as  she  could  summon  courage  to  force  herself  from  the 
presence  of  her  unfortunate  sister. 

A  very  little  reflection,  when  the  capacity  to  reflect  returned,  con- 
vinced her  that  any  attempt  to  identify  Lady  Glyde  and  to  rescue 
her  by  legal  means  would,  even  if  successful,  involve  a  delay  that 
might  be  fatal  to  her  sister's  intellects,  which  were  shaken  already 
by  the  horror  of  the  situation  to  which  she  had  been  consigned. 
By  the  time  Miss  Halcombe  had  got  back  to  London  she  had  de- 
termined to  effect  Lady  Glyde's  escape  privately,  by  means  of  the 
nurse. 

She  went  at  once  to  her  stock-broker,  and  sold  out  of  the  funds  all 
the  little  property  she  possessed,  amounting  to  rather  less  than  sev- 
en hundred  pounds.  Determined,  if  necessary,  to  pay  the  price  of 
lier  sister's  liberty  with  every  farthing  she  had  in  the  world,  slie  re- 
l^aired  the  next  day,  having  the  whole  sum  about  her  in  bank-notes, 
to  her  appointment  outside  the  Asylum  wall. 

The  nurse  was  there.  ]N[iss  Halcombe  approached  the  subject 
cautiously,  by  many  preliminaiy  questions.  She  discovered,  among 
other  particulars,  that  the  nurse  who  had  in  former  times  attended 
on  the  true  Anne  Catherick,  had  been  held  responsible  (although 
she  was  not  to  blame  for  it)  for  the  patient's  escape,  and  had  lost 
her  place  in  consequence.  The  same  penalty,  it  was  added,  would 
attach  to  the  person  then  speaking  to  her,  if  the  supposed  Anne 
Catherick  was  missing  a  second  time ;  and,  moreover,  the  nurse,  in 
this  case,  had  an  especial  interest  in  keeping  her  j^lace.  She  was 
engaged  to  be  married,  and  she  and  her  future  husband  were  wait- 
ing till  they  could  save,  together,  between  two  and  three  hundred 
pounds  to  start  in  business.  The  nurse's  wages  were  good,  and  she 
might  succeed,  by  strict  economy,  in  contributing  her  small  share 
toward  the  sum  required  in  two  years'  time. 

On  this  hint  Miss  Halcombe  spoke.     She  declared  that  the  sup- 


3  72  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

})!)Sf'(l  Anne  Ciitlieriok  was  nearly  related  to  her;  that  she  had  been 
])laeed  in  the  Asylum  under  a  fatal  mistake;  and  that  the  nurse 
would  be  doing  a  good  and  a  Oivistian  action  in  being  the  means 
of  restoring  them  to  one  another.  Before  there  was  time  to  start  a 
single  objection,  Miss  Halcombe  took  four  bank-notes  of  a  hundred 
pounds  each  from  her  pocket-book  and  offered  them  to  the  woman, 
as  a  compensation  for  the  risk  she  was  to  run  and  for  the  loss  of  her 
place. 

The  nurse  hesitated,  through  sheer  incredulity  and  surprise.  Miss 
Halcombe  pressed  the  jDoint  on  her  firmly. 

'"'  You  will  be  doing  a  good  action,"  she  repeated  ;  "  you  will  be 
helping  the  most  injured  and  unhappy  woman  alive.  There  is  your 
marriage-portion  for  a  reward.  Bring  her  safely  to  me  here,  and  I 
will  put  these  four  bank-notes  into  your  hand,  before  I  claim  her." 

''  Will  you  give  me  a  letter  saying  those  words,  which  I  can  show 
to  my  sweetheart,  wdien  he  asks  how  I  got  the  money  V  inquired 
the  woman. 

"  I  will  bring  the  letter  with  me,  ready  written  and  signed,"  an- 
swered 3Iiss  Halcombe. 

"  Then  I'll  risk  it,"  said  the  nurse. 

"When?" 

"To-morrow." 

It  w\as  hastily  agreed  between  them  that  Miss  Halcombe  should 
return  early  the  next  morning,  and  wait  out  of  sight,  among  the 
trees — always,  however,  keeping  near  the  quiet  spot  of  ground  un- 
der the  north  wall.  The  nurse  could  fix  no  time  for  her  appearance, 
caution  requiring  that  she  should  wait,  and  be  guided  by  circum- 
stances.    On  that  understanding,  they  separated. 

Miss  Halcombe  was  at  her  place,  with  the  promised  letter,  and 
the  promised  bank-notes,  before  ten  the  next  morning.  She  waited 
more  than  an  hour  and  a  half.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the  nurse 
came  quickly  round  the  comer  of  the  wall,  holding  Lady  Glyde  by 
the  arm.  The  moment  they  met,  Miss  Halcombe  put  the  bank-notes 
and  the  letter  into  her  hand — and  the  sisters  were  united  again. 

The  nurse  had  dressed  Lady  Glyde,  w^ith  excellent  forethought, 
in  a  bonnet,  veil,  and  shawl  of  her  own.  Miss  Halcombe  only  de- 
tained her  to  suggest  a  means  of  turning  the  pursuit  in  a  false  di- 
rection, when  the  escape  was  discovered  at  the  Asylum.  She  was 
to  go  back  to  the  house :  to  mention  in  the  hearing  of  the  other 
nurses  that  Anne  Cathcrick  had  been  inquiring,  latterly,  about  the 
distance  from  London  to  Hampshire ;  to  wait  till  the  last  moment, 
before  discovery  w*as  inevitable ;  and  then  to  give  the  alarm  that 
Anne  was  missing.  The  supposed  inquiries  al)Out  Hampshire,  when 
communicated  to  the  ow^ner  of  the  Asylum,  would  lead  him  to  im- 
agine that  his  patient  had  returned  to  Blackwater  Park,  under  the 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  373 

influence  of  the  delusion  which  made  her  joersist  in  asserting  herself 
to  be  Lady  Glyde  ;  and  the  first  pursuit  would,  in  all  i^robability,  be 
turned  in  that  direction. 

The  nurse  consented  to  follow  these  suggestions — the  more  readi- 
ly, as  they  oflered  her  the  means  of  securing  herself  against  any 
worse  consequences  than  the  loss  of  her  place,  by  remaining  in  the 
Asylum,  and  so  maintaining  the  appearance  of  innocence,  at  leact. 
She  at  once  returned  to  the  house,  and  Miss  Halcombe  lost  no  time 
in  taking  her  sister  back  with  her  to  London.  They  caught  the 
afternoon  train  to  Carlisle  the  same  afternoon,  and  arrived  at  Lim 
meridge,  without  accident  or  difiiculty  of  any  kind,  that  night. 

During  the  latter  part  of  their  journey  they  were  alone  in  the  c? 
riage,  and  Miss  Halcombe  was  able  to  collect  such  remembranc 
of  the  past  as  her  sister's  confused  and  weakened  memory  was  abi». 
to  recall.  The  terrible  story  of  the  conspiracy,  so  obtained,  was 
presented  in  fragments,  sadly  incoherent  in  themselves,  and  widely 
detached  from  each  other.  Imperfect  as  the  revelation  was,  it  must 
nevertheless  be  recorded  here  before  this  explanatory  narrative  closes 
with  the  events  of  the  next  day  at  Limmeridge  House. 

Lady  Glyde's  recollection  of  the  events  which  followed  her  de- 
parture from  Blackwater  Park  began  with  her  arrival  at  the  London 
terminus  of  the  South-western  Railway.  She  had  omitted  to  make 
a  memorandum  beforehand  of  the  day  on  which  she  took  the  jour- 
ney. All  hope  of  fixing  that  important  date,  by  any  evidence  of 
hers,  or  of  Mrs.  Michelson's,  must  be  given  up  for  lost. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  train  at  the  platform.  Lady  Glyde  found 
Count  Fosco  waiting  for  her.  He  was  at  the  carriage  door  as  soon 
as  the  porter  could  open  it.  The  train  was  unusually  crowded,  and 
there  was  great  confusion  in  getting  the  luggage.  Some  person 
whom  Count  Fosco  brought  with  him  procured  the  luggage  which 
belonged  to  Lady  Glyde.  It  was  marked  with  her  name.  She 
drove  away  alone  with  the  Count  in  a  vehicle  which  she  did  not 
particularly  notice  at  the  time. 

Her  first  question,  on  leaving  the  terminus,  referred  to  Miss  Hal- 
combe. The  Count  informed  her  that  Miss  Halcombe  had  not  yet 
gone  to  Cumberland ;  after-consideration  having  caused  him  to 
doubt  the  pnidence  of  her  taking  so  long  a  journey  without  some 
days'  previous  rest. 

Lady  Glyde  next  inquired  whether  her  sister  was  then  staying  in 
the  Count's  house.  Her  recollection  of  the  answer  was  confused, 
her  only  distinct  impression  in  relation  to  it  being  that  the  Count 
declared  he  was  then  taking  her  to  see  Miss  Halcombe.  Lady 
Glyde's  experience  of  London  was  so  limited  that  she  could  not 
tell,  at  the  time,  through  what  streets  they  were  driving.     But  they 


374  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

never  left  the  streets,  and  tliey  never  passed  any  gardens  or  trees. 
When  tlie  carriage  stopped,  it  stopped  in  a  small  street,  behind  a 
sijiiare — a  square  in  which  there  were  shops,  and  public  buildings, 
and  many  jieople.  From  these  recollections  fof  wliich  Lady  Glyde 
was  certain)  it  seems  quite  clear  that  Count  Fosco  did  not  take  her 
to  his  own  residence,  in  the  suburb  of  St.  John's  Wood. 

They  entered  the  house,  and  went  up  stairs  to  a  back  room,  either 
m  the  first  or  second  floor.  The  luggage  was  carefully  brought  in. 
V  female  servant  opened  the  door,  and  a  man  with  a  dark  bearu, 
r)parently  a  foreigner,  met  them  in  the  liall,  and  with  great  politc- 

'ss  showed  them  the  way  up  stairs.     In  answer  to  Lady  Glyde's 

juiries,  the  Count  assured  her  that  Miss  Halcombe  w^as  in  tlio 

use,  and  that  she  should  be  immediately  informed  of  her  sister's 
ciirival.  He  and  the  foreigner  then  went  away  and  left  her  by  her- 
self in  the  room.  It  was  poorly  furnished  as  a  sitting-room,  and  it 
looked  out  on  the  backs  of  houses. 

The  place  was  remarkably  quiet;  no  footsteps  went  up  or  down 
the  stairs — she  only  heard  in  the  room  beneath  her  a  dull,  rumbling 
sound  of  men's  voices  talking.  Before  she  had  been  long  left  alone, 
the  Count  returned,  to  exjDlain  that  Miss  Halcombe  was  then  taking 
rest,  and  could  not  be  disturbed  for  a  little  while.  He  was  accom- 
panied into  the  room  by  a  gentleman  (an  Englishman)  whom  he 
begged  to  present  as  a  friend  of  his. 

After  this  singular  introduction — in  the  course  of  which  no  names, 
to  the  best  of  Lady  Clyde's  recollection,  had  been  mentioned — she 
was  left  alone  with  the  stranger.  He  was  perfectly  civil ;  but  he 
startled  and  confused  her  by  some  odd  questions  about  herself,  and 
l)y  looking  at  her,  while  he  asked  them,  in  a  strange  manner.  After 
remaining  a  short  time,  he  went  out;  and  a  minute  or  two  after- 
ward a  second  stranger — also  an  Englishman — came  in.  This  per- 
son introduced  himself  as  another  friend  of  Count  Fosco's ;  and  he, 
in  his  turn,  looked  at  her  very  oddly,  and  asked  some  curious  ques- 
tions—  never,  as  well  as  she  could  remember,  addressing  her  by 
name,  and  going  out  again,  after  a  little  while,  like  the  first  man. 
By  this  time,  she  was  so  frightened  about  herself,  and  so  uneasy 
about  her  sister,  that  she  had  thoughts  of  venturing  down  stairs 
again,  and  claiming  the  protection  and  assistance  of  the  only  wom- 
an she  had  seen  in  the  house — the  servant  who  answered  the  door. 

Just  as  she  liad  risen  from  her  chair,  the  Count  cam.e  back  into 
the  room. 

The  moment  he  appeared,  she  asked  anxiously  how  long  the 
meeting  between  her  sister  and  herself  was  to  be  still  delayed.  At 
first  he  returned  an  evasive  answer;  but,  on  being  pressed, he  ac- 
knowledged, with  great  apparent  reluctance,  that  Miss  Halcombe 
was  by  no  means  so  well  as  he  had  hitherto  represented  lier  to  be. 


THE    AVOMAX    IX    WHITE.  375 

His  tone  and  manner,  in  making  this  reply,  so  alarmed  Lady  Glyd?, 
or  rather  so  painfully  increased  the  uneasiness  Avhich  she  had  felt 
in  the  company  of  the  two  strangers,  that  a  sudden  faintness  over- 
came her,  and  she  was  obliged  to  ask  for  a  glass  of  water.  The 
Count  called  from  the  door  for  water,  and  for  a  bottle  of  smellin'^- 
salts.  Both  were  brought  in  by  the  foreign-looking  man  with  the 
beard.  The  water,  when  Lady  Glyde  attempted  to  drink  it,  had  so 
strange  a  taste  that  it  increased  her  faintness,  and  she  hastily  took 
the  bottle  of  salts  from  Count  Fosco,  and  smelled  at  it.  Her  head 
became  giddy  on  the  instant.  The  Count  caught  the  bottle  as  it 
dropped  out  of  her  hand,  and  the  last  impression  of  which  she  was 
conscious  was  that  he  held  it  to  her  nostrils  again. 

From  this  point  her  recollections  were  found  to  be  confused,  frag- 
mentar}',  and  difficult  to  reconcile  with  any  reasonable  probability. 

Her  own  impression  was  that  she  recovered  her  senses  later  in 
the  evening ;  that  she  then  left  the  house ;  that  she  went  (as  she 
had  previously  arranged  to  go  at  Blackwater  Park)  to  3Irs.  Yesey's; 
that  she  drank  tea  there ;  and  that  she  passed  the  night  under 
Mrs.  Vesey's  roof.  She  was  totally  unable  to  say  how,  or  when, 
or  in  "what  company,  she  left  the  house  to  which  Count  Fosco  had 
brought  her.  But  she  persisted  in  asserting  that  she  had  been  to 
Mrs.  Vesey's ;  and,  still  more  extraordinary,  that  she  had  been  help-  <. 
cd  to  undress  and  get  to  bed  by  Mrs.  Rubelle !  She  could  not  re- 
member what  the  conversation  was  at  Mrs.  Vesey's,  or  whom  she 
saw  there  besides  that  lady,  or  why  Mrs.  Rubelle  should  have  been  \ 
present  in  the  house  to  help  her. 

Her  recollection  of  what  happened  to  her  the  next  morning  was 
still  more  vague  and  unreliable. 

She  had  some  dim  idea  of  driving  out  fat  what  hour  she  could 
not  say)  with  Count  Fosco — and  with  Mrs.  Rubelle,  again,  for  a  fe- 
male attendant.  But  when,  and  why.  she  left  Mrs.  Yesey  she  could 
not  tell ;  neither  did  she  know  what  direction  the  carriage  drove  in, 
or  where  it  set  her  down,  or  whether  the  Count  and  Mrs.  Rubelle 
did  or  did  not  remain  "^ith  her  all  the  time  she  was  out.  At  this 
point  in  her  sad  story  there  was  a  total  blank.  She  had  no  impres- 
sions of  the  faintest  kind  to  communicate — no  idea  whether  one 
day,  or  more  than  one  day,  had  passed — until  she  came  to  herself 
suddenly  in  a  strange  place,  surrounded  by  women  who  were  all 
unknown  to  her. 

This  was  the  Asylum.  Here  she  first  heard  herself  called  by 
Anne  Catherick's  name ;  and  here,  as  a  last  remarkable  circum- 
stance in  the  story  of  the  conspiracy,  her  own  eyes  informed  her 
that  she  had  Anne  Catherick's  clothes  on.  The  nurse,  on  the  first 
night  in  the  Asylum,  had  shown  her  the  marks  on  each  article  of 
her  under-clothing  as  it  was  taken  oft',  and  had  said,  not  at  all  irri- 


376  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

tably  or  unkindly, "  Look  at  your  own  name  on  your  own  clothes, 
and  don't  worry  us  all  any  more  about  being  Lady  Glyde.  She's 
tlcad  and  ])uried ;  and  you're  alive  and  hearty.  Do  look  at  your 
clothes  now  !  There  it  is,  in  good  marking-ink  ;  and  there  you  will 
lind  it  on  all  your  old  things,  which  we  have  kept  in  the  house — 
Anne  Catherick,  as  plain  as  print !"  And  there  it  was,  when  3Iiss 
Ilalcombe  examined  the  linen  her  sister  wore,  on  the  night  of  their 
arrival  at  Limmeridge  House. 

These  were  the  only  recollections  —  all  of  them  uncertain,  and 
Bome  of  them  contradictory — which  could  be  extracted  from  Lady 
Glyde,  by  careful  questioning,  on  the  journey  to  Cumberland.  Miss 
Halcombe  abstained  from  pressing  her  with  any  inquiries  relating 
to  events  in  the  Asylum :  her  mind  being  but  too  evidently  unfit  to 
bear  the  trial  of  reverting  to  them.  It  was  known,  by  the  volunta- 
ry admission  of  the  owner  of  the  mad-house,  that  she  was  received 
there  on  the  twenty -seventh  of  July.  From  that  date  until  the 
fifteenth  of  October  (the  day  of  her  rescue)  she  had  been  under  re- 
straint, her  identity  with  Anne  Catherick  systematically  asserted, 
and  her  sanity,  from  first  to  last,  practically  denied.  Faculties  less 
delicately  balanced,  constitutions  less  tenderly  organized,  must  have 
suffered  under  such  an  ordeal  as  this.  No  man  could  have  gone 
through  it  and  come  out  of  it  unchanged. 

Arriving  at  Limmeridge  late  on  the  evening  of  the  fifteenth.  Miss 
Halcombe  wisely  resolved  not  to  attempt  the  assertion  of  Lady 
Glyde's  identity  until  the  next  day. 

The  first  thing  in  the  morning,  she  went  to  Mr.  Fairlie's  room, 
and,  using  all  possible  cautions  and  preparations  beforehand,  at  last 
told  him,  in  so  many  words,  what  had  happened.  As  soon  as  his 
first  astonishment  and  alarm  had  subsided,  he  angrily  declared  that 
Miss  Halcombe  had  allowed  herself  to  be  duped  by  Anne  Catherick. 
He  referred  her  to  Count  Fosco's  letter,  and  to  what  she  had  her- 
self told  him  of  the  personal  resemblance  between  Anne  and  his 
deceased  niece  ;  and  he  positively  declined  to  admit  to  his  presence, 
even  for  one  minute  only,  a  mad-woman  whom  it  was  an  insult  and 
an  outrage  to  have  brought  into  his  house  at  all. 

Miss  Halcombe  left  the  room ;  waited  till  the  first  heat  of  her  in- 
dignation had  passed  away;  decided,  on  reflection,  that  Mr,  Fairlie 
should  see  his  niece,  in  the  interests  of  common  humanity,  before  he 
closed  his  doors  on  her  as  a  stranger;  and  thereupon,  without  a 
word  of  previous  warning,  took  Lady  Glyde  with  her  to  his  room. 
The  servant  was  posted  at  the  door  to  prevent  their  entrance ;  but 
Miss  Halcombe  insisted  on  passing  him,  and  made  her  way  into  Mr. 
Fairlie's  presence,  leading  her  sister  by  the  hand. 

The  scene  that  followed,  though  it  only  lasted  for  a  few  minutes, 


MR.   FAIULIi:    DECLAKED    IN    THE   MOST    POSITIVE    TERMS    THAT    HE    DID 
NOT    RECOGNIZE   THE   WOMAN. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AViHTE.  5/9 

Tras  too  painful  to  be  described  —  Miss  Halcombe  herself  shrank 
from  referring  to  it.  Let  it  be  enough  to  say  that  ]\Ir.  Fairlie  de- 
clared, iu  the  most  positive  tenus,  that  he  did  not  recognize  the 
woman  who  had  been  brought  into  his  room ;  that  he  saw  nothing 
in  her  face  and  manner  to  make  him  doubt  for  a  moment  that  his 
niece  lay  buried  in  Limmeridge  church-yard;  and  that  lie  would 
call  on  the  law  to  protect  him  if  before  the  day  was  over  she  was 
not  removed  from  the  house. 

Taking  the  very  worst  view  of  Mr.  Fairlie's  sellishness,  indolence, 
and  habitual  want  of  feeling,  it  was  manifestly  impossible  to  sup- 
pose that  he  was  capable  of  such  infomy  as  secretly  recognizing  and 
openly  disowning  his  brother's  child.  Miss  Halcombe  humanely 
and  sensibly  allowed  all  due  force  to  the  influence  of  prejudice  and 
alarm  in  preventing  him  from  fairly  exercising  his  perceptions,  and 
accounted  for  what  had  happened  in  that  way.  But  when  she  next 
put  the  servants  to  the  test,  and  found  that  they  too  were,  in  every 
case,  uncertain,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  whether  the  lady  presented  to 
them  was  their  young  mistress  or  Anne  Catherick,  of  whose  resem- 
blance to  her  they  had  all  heard,  the  sad  conclusion  was  inevitable 
that  the  change  produced  in  Lady  Glyde's  face  and  manner  by  her 
imprisonment  in  the  Asylum  was  far  more  serious  than  Miss  Hal- 
combe had  at  first  sujDposed.  The  vile  deception  which  had  assert- 
ed her  death  defied  exposure  even  in  the  house  where  she  was  born, 
and  among  the  people  with  whom  she  had  lived. 

In  a  less  critical  situation  the  eflbit  need  not  have  been  given  up 
as  hopeless,  even  yet. 

For  example,  the  maid,  Fanny,  v.'ho  happened  to  be  then  absent 
from  Limmeridge,  was  expected  back  in  two  days,  and  there  would 
be  a  chance  of  gaining  her  recognition  to  start  with,  seeing  that  she 
had  been  in  much  more  constant  communication  with  her  mistress, 
and  had  been  much  more  heartily  attached  to  her  than  the  other 
servants.  Again,  Lady  Glyde  might  have  been  privately  kept  in 
the  house,  or  in  the  village,  to  wait  until  her  health  was  a  little  re- 
covered, and  her  mind  was  a  little  steadied  again.  When  her  mem- 
ory could  be  once  more  trusted  to  serve  her,  she  would  naturally 
refer  to  persons  and  events  in  the  past  with  a  certainty  and  a  fa- 
miliarity which  no  impostor  could  stimulate ;  and  so  the  fact  of  her 
identity,  which  her  own  appearance  had  foiled  to  estaljlish,  might 
subsequently  be  proved,  with  time  to  help  her,  by  the  surer  test  of 
her  own  words. 

But  the  circumstances  under  which  she  had  regained  her  free- 
dom rendered  all  recourse  to  such  means  as  these  simply  imprac- 
ticable. The  pursuit  from  the  Asylum,  diverted  to  Hampshire  for 
the  time  only,  would  infallibly  next  take  the  direction  of  Cumber- 
land.    The  persons  appointed  to  seek  the  fugitive  might  arrive  at 


380  Tin:  woman  in  white. 

Limmeridge  House  at  a  few  hours'  notice,  and  in  Mr.  Fairlie's  pres- 
ent tcm])er  of  mind  they  might  count  on  the  immediate  exertion  of 
his  h)c-al  inthicnce  and  authority  to  assist  them.  The  commonest 
consideration  for  Lady  Clyde's  safety  forced  on  Miss  Halcombe  the 
necessity  of  resifcning  the  struggle  to  do  lier  justice,  and  of  remov- 
ing her  at  once  from  the  place  of  all  others  that  was  now  most  dan- 
gerous to  her — the  neighborhood  of  her  own  home. 

An  immediate  return  to  London  was  the  first  and  wisest  measure 
of  security  which  suggested  itself.  In  the  great  city  all  traces  of 
them  might  be  most  speedily  and  most  surely  effaced.  There  were 
no  preparations  to  make — no  farewell  words  of  kindness  to  exchange 
with  any  one.  On  the  afternoon  of  that  memorable  day  of  the  six- 
teenth, Miss  Halcombe  roused  her  sister  to  a  last  exertion  of  cour- 
age ;  and,  without  a  living  soul  to  wish  them  well  at  parting,  the 
two  took  their  way  into  the  world  alone,  and  turned  their  backs 
forever  on  Limmeridge  House, 

They  had  passed  the  hill  above  the  church-yard,  when  Lady  Glyde 
insisted  on  turning  back  to  look  her  last  at  her  mother's  grave. 
Miss  Halcombe  tried  to  shake  her  resolution,  but  in  this  one  in- 
stance tried  in  vain.  She  was  immovable.  Her  dim  eyes  lit  vdih  a 
sudden  fire,  and  flashed  through  the  veil  that  hung  over  them ;  her 
wasted  fingers  strengthened,  moment  by  moment,  round  the  friendly 
arm  by  which  they  had  held  so  listlessly  till  this  time,  I  believe  in 
my  soul  that  the  Hand  of  God  was  pointing  their  way  back  to  them, 
and  that  the  most  innocent  and  the  most  afflicted  of  His  creatures 
was  chosen,  in  that  dread  moment,  to  see  it. 

They  retraced  their  steps  to  the  burial-ground,  and  by  that  act 
sealed  the  future  of  our  three  lives. 

III. 

This  wtis  the  story  of  the  past — the  story  so  far  as  we  knew  it 
then. 

Two  obvious  conclusions  presented  themselves  to  my  mind  after 
hearing  it.  In  the  first  place,  I  saw  darkly  what  the  nature  of  the 
conspiracy  had  been ;  how  chances  had  been  w^atched,  and  how  cir- 
cumstances had  been  handled  to  insure  impunity  to  a  daring  and  an 
intricate  crime.  While  all  details  were  still  a  mystery  to  me,  the  vile 
manner  in  which  the  personal  resemblance  between  the  woman  in 
white  and  Lady  Glyde  had  been  turned  to  account  was  clear  be- 
yond a  doubt.  It  was  plain  that  Anne  Catherick  had  been  intro- 
duced into  Count  Fosco's  house  as  Lady  Glyde ;  it  was  plain  that 
Lady  Glyde  had  taken  the  dead  woman's  place  in  the  Asylum — the 
substitution  having  been  so  managed  as  to  make  innocent  people 
(the  doctor  and  the  two  servants  certainly,  and  the  owner  of  the 
mad-house  in  all  probability)  accomplices  in  the  crime. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  381 

The  second  conclusion  came  as  the  necessary  consequence  of  the 
first.  We  three  had  no  mercy  to  expect  from  Count  Fosco  and  Sir 
Percival  Glycle.  The  success  of  the  conspiracy  had  brought  with  it 
a  clear  gain  to  those  two  men  of  thirty  thousand  pounds — twenty 
thousand  to  one,  ten  thousand  to  the  other,  through  his  wife.  They 
had  that  interest,  as  well  as  other  interests,  in  insuring  their  impuni- 
ty from  exposure ;  and  they  would  leave  no  stone  unturned,  no  sac- 
rifice unattempted,  no  treachery  untried,  to  discover  the  place  in 
which  their  victim  was  concealed,  and  to  part  her  from  tlie  only 
friends  she  had  in  the  world — Marian  Halcombe  and  myself 

The  sense  of  this  serious  peril — a  peril  which  every  day  and  every 
hour  might  bring  nearer  and  nearer  to  us — was  the  one  influence 
that  guided  me  in  fixing  the  place  of  our  retreat.  I  chose  it  in  the 
far  East  of  London,  where  there  were  fewest  idle  people  to  lounge 
and  look  about  them  in  the  streets.  I  chose  it  in  a  poor  and  a  pop- 
ulous neighborhood — because  the  harder  the  struggle  for  existence 
among  the  men  and  women  about  us,  the  less  the  risk  of  their  hav- 
ing the  time  or  taking  the  pains  to  notice  chance  strangers  who 
came  among  them.  These  were  the  great  advantages  I  looked  to ; 
but  our  locality  was  a  gain  to  us  also  in  another  and  a  hardly  less 
important  respect.  We  could  live  cheaply  by  the  daily  work  of  my 
hands,  and  could  save  every  farthing  we  possessed  to  forward  the 
purpose — the  righteous  purpose  of  redressing  an  infamous  wrong — 
which,  from  first  to  last,  I  now  kept  steadily  in  view. 

In  a  week's  time  Marian  Halcombe  and  I  had  settled  how  the 
course  of  our  new  lives  should  be  directed. 

There  were  no  other  lodgers  in  the  house,  and  we  had  the  means 
of  going  in  and  out  without  jiassing  through  the  shop.  I  arranged, 
for  the  present  at  least,  that  neither  Marian  nor  Laura  should  stir 
outside  the  door  without  my  being  with  them ;  and  that,  in  my  ab- 
sence from  home,  they  should  let  no  one  into  their  rooms,  on  any 
pretense  whatever.  This  rule  established,  I  went  to  a  friend  whom 
I  had  known  in  former  days — a  wood-engraver  in  large  practice — to 
seek  for  employment,  telling  him  at  the  same  time  that  I  had  reasons 
for  wishing  to  remain  unknown. 

He  at  once  concluded  that  I  was  in  debt,  expressed  his  regret  in 
the  usual  forms,  and  then  promised  to  do  what  he  could  to  assist 
me.  I  left  his  false  impression  undisturbed,  and  accepted  the  work 
he  had  to  give.  He  knew  that  he  could  trust  my  experience  and 
my  industry.  I  had  what  he  wanted,  steadiness  and  facility;  and 
though  my  earnings  were  but  small,  they  sufficed  for  our  necessities. 
As  soon  as  we  could  feel  certain  of  this,  ]Marian  Halcombe  and  I  pui 
together  what  we  possessed.  She  had  between  two  and  three  hun~ 
dred  pounds  left  of  her  own  property,  and  I  had  nearly  as  much  re- 
maining from  the  purchase-money  obtained  by  the  sale  of  my  draw- 


882  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

ing-master's  practice  before  I  left  England.  Together  we  made  up 
between  us  more  than  four  hundred  pounds.  I  deposited  this  httle 
fortune  in  a  bank,  to  be  kept  for  the  expense  of  those  secret  inqui- 
ries and  investigations  which  I  was  determined  to  set  on  foot,  and 
to  carry  on  by  myself  if  I  could  find  no  one  to  help  me.  We  calcu- 
lated our  weekly  expenditure  to  the  last  farthing,  and  we  never 
touched  our  little  fund  except  in  Laura's  interests  and  for  Laura's 
sake. 

The  house-work,  which,  if  we  had  dared  trust  a  stranger  near  us, 
would  have  been  done  by  a  servant,  was  taken  on  the  first  day, 
taken  as  her  o^vti  right,  by  Marian  Halcombe.  "  What  a  woman's 
hands  are  fit  for,''  she  said,  "  early  and  late  these  hands  of  mine  shall 
do."  They  trembled  as  she  held  them  out.  The  wasted  arms  told 
their  sad  story  of  the  past  as  she  turned  up  the  sleeves  of  the  poor 
plain  dress  that  she  wore  for  safety's  sake ;  but  the  unquenchable 
spirit  of  the  woman  burned  bright  in  her  even  yet.  I  saw  the  big 
tears  rise  thick  in  her  eyes  and  fall  slowly  over  her  cheeks  as  she 
looked  at  me.  She  dashed  them  away  with  a  touch  of  her  old 
energy,  and  smiled  with  a  faint  reflection  of  her  old  good  spirits. 
"Don't  doubt  my  courage,  Walter,"  she  pleaded;  '*its  my  weak- 
ness that  cries,  not  me.  The  house-work  shall  conquer  it,  if /can't." 
And  she  kejDt  her  word — the  victory  was  won  when  we  met  in  the 
evening,  and  she  sat  down  to  rest.  Her  large,  steady,  black  eyes 
looked  at  me  with  a  flash  of  their  bright  firmness  of  by-gone  days. 
"  I  am  not  quite  broken  down  yet,"  she  said ;  "  I  am  worth  trusting 
with  my  share  of  the  work."  Before  I  could  answer,  she  added,  in 
a  whisper.  ''  And  worth  trusting  with  my  share  in  the  risk  and  the 
danger  too.     Remember  that,  if  the  time  comes." 

I  did  remember  it,  when  the  time  came. 

As  early  as  the  end  of  October  the  daily  course  of  our  lives  had 
assumed  its  settled  direction,  and  we  three  were  as  completely  isola- 
ted in  our  place  of  concealment  as  if  the  house  we  lived  in  had  been 
a  desert  island,  and  the  great  net-work  of  streets  and  the  thousands 
of  our  fellow-creatures  all  around  us  the  waters  of  an  illimitable  sea. 
I  could  now  reckon  on  some  leisure  time  for  considering  what  my 
future  plan  of  action  should  be,  and  how  I  might  arm  myself  most 
securely  at  the  outset  for  the  coming  struggle  with  Sir  Percival  and 
the  Count. 

I  gave  up  all  hope  of  appealing  to  my  recognition  of  Laura,  or  to 
Marian's  recognition  of  her,  in  proof  of  her  identity.  If  we  had 
loved  her  less  dearly,  if  the  instinct  implanted  in  us  by  that  love 
had  not  been  far  more  certain  than  any  exercise  of  reasoning,  far 
keener  than  any  process  of  observation,  even  we  might  have  hesi- 
tated, on  first  seeing  her. 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  383 

The  outward  changes  wrought  by  the  suffering  and  the  terror  of 
the  past  had  fearfully,  almost  hopelessly,  strengthened  the  fatal  re- 
semblance between  Anne  Catherick  and  herself.  In  my  narrative  of 
events  at  the  time  of  my  residence  in  Limmeridge  House,  I  have  re- 
corded, from  my  own  observation  of  the  two,  how  the  likeness,  strik- 
ing as  it  was  when  viewed  generally,  failed  in  many  important  points 
of  similarity  when  tested  in  detail.  In  those  foiTuer  days,  if  they 
had  both  been  seen  together,  side  by  side,  no  person  could  for  a  mo- 
ment have  mistaken  them  one  for  the  other — as  has  happened  often 
in  the  instances  of  twins,  I  could  not  say  this  now.  The  sorrow 
and  suffering  which  I  had  once  blamed  myself  for  associating  even 
by  a  passing  thought  with  the  future  of  Laura  Fairlie,  had  set  their 
profaning  marks  on  the  youth  and  beauty  of  her  face,  and  the  fatal 
resemblance  which  I  had  once  seen  and  shuddered  at  seeing,  in  idea 
only,  was  now  a  real  and  living  resemblance  which  asserted  itself 
before  my  own  eyes.  Strangers,  acquaintances,  friends  even  who 
could  not  look  at  her  as  we  looked,  if  she  had  been  shown  to  them 
in  the  first  days  of  her  rescue  from  the  Asylum,  might  have  doubted 
if  she  were  the  Laura  Fairlie  they  had  once  seen,  and  doubted  with- 
out blame. 

The  one  remaining  chance,  which  I  had  at  first  thought  might  be 
trusted  to  serve  us — the  chance  of  appealing  to  her  recollection  of 
persons  and  events  with  which  no  impostor  could  be  familiar,  was 
proved,  by  the  sad  test  of  our  later  experience,  to  be  hopeless.  Ev- 
ery little  caution  that  Marian  and  I  practiced  toward  her ;  every  lit- 
tle remedy  we  tried,  to  strengthen  and  steady  slowly  the  weakened, 
shaken  faculties,  was  a  fresh  protest  in  itself  against  the  risk  of  turn- 
ing her  mind  back  on  the  troubled  and  the  terrible  past. 

The  only  events  of  former  days  which  we  ventured  on  encouragmg 
her  to  recall  were  the  little  trivial  domestic  events  of  that  happy 
time  at  Limmeridge  when  I  first  went  there,  and  taught  her  to  draw. 
The  day  when  I  roused  those  remembrances  by  showing  her  the 
sketch  of  th3  summer-house  which  she  had  given  me  on  the  morn- 
ing of  our  farewell,  and  which  had  never  been  separated  from  me 
since,  was  the  birthday  of  our  first  hope.  Tenderly  and  gradually, 
the  memory  of  the  old  walks  and  drives  dawned  upon  her;  and  the 
poor,  weary,  pining  eyes  looked  at  Marian  and  at  me  with  a  new  in- 
terest, with  a  faltering  thoughtfulness  in  them,  which  from  that  mo- 
ment we  cherished  and  kept  alive.  I  bought  her  a  little  box  of  col 
ors,  and  a  sketch-book  like  the  old  sketch-book  which  I  had  seen  m 
her  hands  on  the  morning  when  we  first  met.  Once  again — oh  me, 
once  again  I — at  spare  hours  saved  from  my  work,  in  the  dull  Lon^ 
don  light,  in  the  poor  London  room.  I  sat  by  her  side,  to  guide  the 
faltering  touch,  to  help  the  feeble  hand.  Day  by  day,  I  raised  and 
raised  the  new  interest  till  its  place  in  the  ])lank  of  her  existence 


384  THE    AVOMAX    IN    WHITE. 

was  At  last  assured — till  she  could  think  of  licr  drawing,  and  talk  of 
it,  and  patiently  practice  it  by  herself,  with  some  faint  reflection  of 
the  innocent  pleasure  in  my  encouragement,  the  growing  enjoyment 
in  her  own  progress,  which  belonged  to  the  lost  life  and  the  lost 
happiness  of  past  days. 

We  helped  her  mind  slowly  by  this  simple  means ;  we  took  her 
out  between  us  to  walk,  on  fine  days,  in  a  quiet  old  City  square,  near 
at  hand,  where  there  w%as  nothing  to  confuse  or  alann  her ;  we  spared 
a  few  pounds  from  the  fund  at  the  banker's  to  get  her  wine,  and  the 
delicate  strengthening  food  that  she  required;  we  amused  her  in 
the  evenings  with  children's  games  at  cards,  with  scrap-books  full 
of  prints  which  I  borrowed  from  the  engraver  who  employed  me — 
by  these,  and  other  trifling  attentions  like  them,  we  composed  her 
and  steadied  her,  and  hoped  all  things,  as  cheerfully  as  we  could, 
from  time  and  care,  and  love  that  never  neglected  and  never  despair- 
ed of  her.  But  to  take  her  mercilessly  from  seclusion  and  repose ; 
to  confront  her  with  strangers,  or  with  acquaintances  who  were  lit- 
tle better  than  strangers ;  to  rouse  the  painful  imj^ressions  of  her 
past  life  which  we  had  so  carefully  hushed  to  rest — this,  even  in  her 
own  interests,  we  dared  not  do.  Whatever  sacrifices  it  cost,  what- 
ever long,  weary,  heart-breaking  delays  it  involved,  the  wrong  that 
had  been  inflicted  on  her,  if  mortal  means  could  grapple  it,  must  be 
redressed  without  her  knowledge  and  without  her  help. 

This  resolution  settled,  it  was  next  necessary  to  decide  how 
the  first  risk  should  be  ventured,  and  what  the  first  proceedings 
should  be. 

After  consulting  with  Marian,  I  resolved  to  begin  by  gathering 
together  as  many  facts  as  could  be  collected — then  to  ask  the  ad- 
vice of  Mr.  Kyrle  (whom  we  knew  we  could  trust) ;  and  to  ascer- 
tain from  him,  in  the  first  instance,  if  the  legal  remedy  lay  tjiirly 
within  our  reach.  I  owed  it  to  Laura's  interests  not  to  stake  her 
whole  future  on  my  own  unaided  exertions,  so  long  as  there  was 
the  faintest  prospect  of  strengthening  our  position  by  obtaining  re- 
liable assistance  of  any  kind. 

The  first  source  of  information  to  which  I  applied  was  the  journal 
kept  at  Blackwater  Park  by  Marian  Halcombe.  There  were  pas- 
sages in  this  diary,  relating  to  myself,  which  she  thought  it  best 
that  I  should  not  see.  Accordingly,  she  read  to  me  from  the  manu- 
script, and  I  took  the  notes  I  wanted  as  she  went  on.  We  could 
only  find  time  to  pursue  this  occupation  by  sitting  up  late  at  night. 
Three  nights  were  devoted  to  the  purpose,  and  were  enough  to  put 
me  in  possession  of  all  that  Marian  could  teli. 

My  next  proceeding  was  to  gain  as  much  additional  evidence  as 
I  could  procure  from  other  people,  without  exciting  suspicion.  I 
wtnt  niyst'lf  to  Mrs.  Vesey,  to  ascertain  if  Laura's  impression  of  hav- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    AVUITE.  385 

ing  slept  there  was  correct  or  not.  In  tliis  case,  from  consideration 
for  Mrs,  Vesey's  age  and  infirmity,  and  in  all  subsequent  cases  of  the 
same  kind  from  considerations  of  caution,  I  kept  our  real  position  a 
secret,  and  was  always  careful  to  speak  of  Laura  as  "  the  late  Lady 
Glyde." 

Mrs.  Vesey's  answer  to  my  inquiries  only  confirmed  the  appre- 
hensions which  I  had  previously  felt.  Laura  had  certainly  written 
to  say  she  would  pass  the  night  under  the  roof  of  her  old  friend — 
but  she  had  never  been  near  the  house. 

Her  mind  in  this  instance,  and,  as  I  feared,  in  other  instances  be- 
sides, confusedly  presented  to  her  something  which  she  had  only 
intended  to  do  in  the  false  light  of  something  which  she  had  really 
done.  The  unconscious  contradiction  of  herself  was  easy  to  ac- 
count for  in  this  way — but  it  was  likely  to  lead  to  serious  results. 
It  was  a  stumble  on  the  threshold  at  starting;  it  was  a  flaw  in  the 
evidence  which  told  fiitally  against  us. 

When  I  next  asked  for  the  letter  which  Laura  had  written  to 
Mrs.  Vesey  from  Blackwater  Park,  it  was  given  to  me  without  the 
envelope,  which  had  been  thrown  into  the  waste-paper  basket,  and 
long  since  destroyed.  In  the  letter  itself  no  date  was  mentioned 
—not  even  the  day  of  the  week.  It  only  contained  these  lines : 
"  Dearest  Mrs.  Vesey,  I  am  in  sad  distress  and  anxiety,  and  I  may 
come  to  your  house  to-morrow  night,  and  ask  for  a  bed.  I  can't 
tell  you  what  is  the  matter  in  this  letter — I  write  it  in  such  fear  of 
being  found  out  that  I  can  fix  my  mind  on  nothing.  Pray  be  at 
home  to  see  me.  I  will  give  you  a  thousand  kisses,  and  tell  j^ou 
every  thing.  Your  afi"ectionate  Laura."  What  help  was  there  in 
those  lines  ?     None. 

On  returning  from  Mrs.  Vesey's,  I  instructed  Marian  to  write  (ob- 
serving the  same  caution  which  I  practiced  myself)  to  Mrs.  Mich- 
elson.  She  was  to  express,  if  she  j^leased,  some  general  suspicion 
of  Count  Fosco's  conduct ;  and  she  was  to  ask  the  housekeeper  to 
supply  us  with  a  plain  statement  of  events,  in  the  interests  of  truth. 
While  we  were  waiting  for  the  answer,  which  reached  us  in  a  week's 
time,  I  went  to  the  doctor  in  St.  John's  Wood,  introducing  myself 
as  sent  by  Miss  Halcombe,  to  collect,  if  possible,  more  particulars  of 
her  sister's  last  illness  than  Mr.  Kyrle  had  found  the  time  to  pro- 
cure. By  Mr.  Goodricke's  assistance  I  obtained  a  copy  of  the  cer- 
tificate of  death,  and  an  interview  with  the  woman  (Jane  Gould) 
who  had  been  employed  to  prepare  the  body  for  the  grave. 
Through  this  person  I  also  discovered  a  means  of  communicating 
with  the  servant,  Hester  Pinhorn.  She  had  recently  left  her  place, 
in  consequence  of  a  disagreement  with  her  mistress,  and  she  was 
lodging  with  some  j)cople  in  tlie  neighborliood  wliom  3[rs.  Gould 
knew.     In  the  manner  here  indicated  I  obtained  the  Narratives  of 

17 


380  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

the  hoiisokoepcr,  of  the  doctor,  of  Jane  Gould,  and  of  Hester  Pin- 
liorn,  exactly  as  they  are  presented  in  these  pages. 

Furnished  with  such  additional  evidence  as  these  documents  af- 
forded, I  considered  myself  to  be  sufficiently  prepared  for  a  consul- 
tation with  Mr.  Kyrle,  and  Marian  wrote  accordingly  to  mention  my 
name  to  him,  and  to  specify  the  day  and  hour  at  which  I  requested 
to  sec  him  on  private  business. 

There  was  time  enough  in  the  morning  for  me  to  take  Laura  out 
for  her  walk  as  usual,  and  to  see  her  quietly  settled  at  her  drawing 
afterward.  She  looked  up  at  me  with  a  new  anxiety  in  her  face,  as 
I  rose  to  leave  the  room,  and  her  fingers  began  to  toy  doubtfully,  in 
the  old  way,  with  the  brushes  and  pencils  on  the  table. 

"  You  are  not  tired  of  me  yet  ?"  she  said.  "  You  are  not  going 
away  because  you  are  tired  of  me  ?  I  will  try  to  do  better — I  will 
try  to  get  well.  Are  you  as  fond  of  me,  Walter,  as  you  used  to  be, 
now  I  am  so  pale  and  thin,  and  so  slow  in  learning  to  draw  ?" 

She  spoke  as  a  child  might  have  spoken;  she  showed  me  her 
thoughts  as  a  child  might  have  shown  them.  I  waited  a  few  min- 
utes longer — waited  to  tell  her  that  she  was  dearer  to  me  now  than 
she  had  ever  been  in  the  past  times.  "  Try  to  get  well  again,"  I 
said,  encouraging  the  new  hope  in  the  future  which  I  saw  dawning 
in  her  mind ;  "  try  to  -get  well  again,  for  Marian's  sake  and  for 
mine." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  to  herself,  returning  to  her  drawing.  "  I  must 
try,  because  they  are  both  so  fond  of  me."  She  suddenly  looked  up 
again.  "  Don't  be  gone  long  I  I  can't  get  on  with  my  drawing, 
Walter,  when  you  are  not  here  to  help  me." 

'^  I  shall  soon  be  back,  my  darling — soon  be  back  to  see  how  you 
are  getting  on." 

My  voice  faltered  a  little  in  spite  of  me.  I  forced  myself  from  the 
room.  It  was  no  time,  then,  for  parting  with  the  self-control  which 
might  yet  serve  me  in  my  need  before  the  day  was  out. 

As  I  opened  the  door,  I  beckoned  to  Marian  to  follow  me  to  the 
stairs.  It  was  necessary  to  prepare  her  for  a  result  which  I  felt 
might  sooner  or  later  follow  my  showing  myself  openly  in  the 
streets. 

"  I  shall,  in  all  probability,  be  back  in  a  few  hours,"  I  said  ;  "  and 
you  will  take  care,  as  usual,  to  let  no  one  inside  the  doors  in  my 
absence.     But  if  any  thing  happens — " 

''  What  can  happen  ?"  she  interposed,  quickly.  ''  Tell  me  plainly, 
Walter,  if  there  is  any  danger — and  I  shall  know  how  to  meet  it." 

"  The  only  danger,"  I  replied,  "  is  that  Sir  Percival  Glyde  may 
have  been  recalled  to  London  by  the  news  of  Laura's  escape.  You 
are  aware  that  he  had  me  watched  before  I  left  England,  and  that 
he  probably  knows  me  by  sight,  although  I  don't  know  him  ?" 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  387 

She  laid  lier  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  looked  at  me  in  anxious 
silence.     I  saw  she  understood  the  serious  risk  that  threatened  us. 

"  It  is  not  likely,"  I  said,  "  that  I  shall  be  seen  in  London  again 
so  soon,  either  by  Sir  Percival  himself  or  by  the  persons  in  his  em- 
ploy. But  it  is  barely  possible  that  an  accident  may  happen.  In 
that  case,  you  will  not  be  alarmed  if  I  fail  to  return  to-night ;  and 
you  will  satisfy  any  inquiry  of  Laura's  with  the  best  excuse  that 
you  can  make  for  me  ?  If  I  find  the  least  reason  to  suspect  that  I 
am  watched,  I  will  take  good  care  that  no  spy  follows  me  back  to 
this  house.  Don't  doubt  my  return,  Marian,  however  it  may  be  de- 
layed— and  fear  nothing." 

*'  Xothing  !"  she  answered,  firmly.  '*  You  shall  not  regret,  ^'al- 
ter, that  you  have  only  a  woman  to  help  you."  She  paused,  and  de- 
tained me  for  a  moment  longer.  '*  Take  care  '."  she  said,  pressing 
my  hand  anxiously — ''  take  care  I" 

I  left  her,  and  set  forth  to  pave  tlie  way  for  discovery — the  dark 
and  doubtful  way,  which  began  at  the  lawyer's  door. 

IV. 

Xo  circumstance  of  the  slightest  importance  happened  on  my 
way  to  the  offices  of  Messrs.  Gilmore  and  Kyrle,  in  Chancery  Lane. 

While  my  card  was  being  taken  in  to  Mr.  Kyrle,  a  consideration 
occurred  to  me  which  I  deeply  regretted  not  having  thought  of 
before.  The  information  derived  from  Marian's  diary  made  it  a 
matter  of  certainty  that  Count  Fosco  had  opened  her  first  letter 
from  Blackwater  Park  to  Mr.  Kyrle,  and  had,  by  means  of  his  wife, 
intercepted  the  second.  He  was,  therefore,  well  aware  of  the  ad- 
dress of  the  office,  and  he  would  naturally  infer  that  if  Marian  want- 
ed advice  and  assistance,  after  Laura's  escape  from  the  Asylum,  she 
would  apply  once  more  to  the  experience  of  Mr.  Kyi'le,  In  this 
case,  the  office  in  Chancery  Lane  was  the  very  first  place  which  he 
and  Sir  Percival  would  cause  to  be  watched ;  and  if  the  same  per- 
sons were  chosen  for  the  purpose  who  had  been  employed  to  follow 
me,  before  my  departure  from  England,  the  fact  of  my  return  would 
in  all  probability  be  ascertained  on  that  very  day.  I  had  thought, 
generally,  of  the  chances  of  my  being  recognized  in  the  streets;  but 
the  special  risk  connected  with  the  office  had  never  occurred  to  me 
until  the  present  moment.  It  was  too  late  now  to  repair  this  un- 
fortunate eiTor  in  judgment — too  late  to  wish  that  I  had  made  ar- 
rangements for  meeting  the  lawyer  in  some  place  privately  appoint- 
ed beforehand.  I  could  only  resolve  to  be  cautious  on  leaving 
Chancery  Lane,  and  not  to  go  straight  home  again  under  any  cir- 
cumstances whaiever. 

After  waiting  a  few  minutes,  I  was  shown  into  Mr.  Kyrle's  private 
room.     He  was  a  pale,  thin,  quiet,  self-possessed  man,  with  a  very 


388  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

attentive  cj-e,  a  very  low  voice,  and  a  very  undemonstrative  manner; 
not  (as  I  judged)  ready  with  his  sympathy  where  strangers  were 
concerned,  and  not  at  all  easy  to  disturb  in  his  professional  com- 
posure. A  better  man  for  my  purpose  could  hardly  have  been 
found.  If  he  committed  himself  to  a  decision  at  all,  and  if  the  de- 
cision was  favorable,  the  strength  of  our  case  was  as  good  as  proved 
from  that  moment. 

"  Before  I  enter  on  the  business  which  brings  me  here,"  I  said, 
"  I  ought  to  warn  you,  Mr.  Kyrle,  that  the  shortest  statement  I  can 
make  of  it  may  occupy  some  little  time." 

"  My  time  is  at  Miss  Halcombe's  disposal,"  he  replied.  "  Where 
any  interests  of  hers  are  concerned,  I  represent  my  partner  person- 
ally, as  well  as  professionally.  It  was  his  request  that  I  should  do 
so,  when  he  ceased  to  take  an  active  part  in  business." 

"  May  I  inquire  whether  Mr.  Gilmore  is  in  England  ?" 

"  He  is  not :  he  is  living  with  his  relatives  in  Germany.  His 
health  has  improved,  but  the  period  of  his  return  is  still  uncertain." 

While  we  were  exchanging  these  few  preliminary  words,  he  had 
been  searching  among  the  papers  before  him,  and  he  now  produced 
from  them  a  sealed  letter.  I  thought  he  was  about  to  hand  the  let- 
ter to  me,  but,  apparently  changing  his  mind,  he  j^laeed  it  by  itself 
on  the  table,  settled  himself  in  his  chair,  and  silently  waited  to  hear 
what  I  had  to  say. 

Without  wasting  a  moment  in  prefatory  words  of  any  sort,  I  en- 
tered on  my  narrative,  and  put  him  in  full  possession  of  the  events 
which  have  already  been  related  in  these  pages. 

Lawyer  as  he  was  to  the  vei^  marrow  of  his  bones,  I  startled  him 
out  of  his  professional  comjiosure.  Expressions  of  incredulity  and 
suq^rise,  which  he  could  not  repress,  interrupted  me  several  times, 
before  I  had  done.  I  persevered,  however,  to  the  end,  and,  as  soon 
as  I  reached  it,  boldly  asked  the  one  important  question : 

"  What  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Kyrle  V 

He  was  too  cautious  to  commit  himself  to  an  answer  without  tak- 
ing time  to  recover  his  self-possession  first. 

"  Before  I  give  my  opinion,"  he  said,  "  I  must  beg  permission  to 
clear  the  ground  by  a  few  questions." 

He  put  the  questions — sharj:),  suspicious,  unbelieving  questions, 
which  clearly  showed  me,  as  they  proceeded,  that  he  thought  I  was 
the  victim  of  a  delusion,  and  that  he  might  even  have  doubted,  but 
for  my  introduction  to  him  l)y  IMiss  Halcombe,  whether  I  was  not 
attempting  the  perpetration  of  a  cunningh^-designed  fraud. 

''  Do  you  believe  that  I  have  spoken  the  truth,  Mr.  Kyrle  ?"  I  ask- 
ed, when  lie  had  done  examining  me, 

"So  fiir  as  your  own  convictions  are  concerned,  I  am  certain  you 
have  spoken  the  truth,"  he  replied.     "  I  have  the  highest  esteem  for 


THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE.  389 

Miss  Halcombe,  and  I  have  therefore  every  reason  to  respect  a  gen- 
tleman whose  mediation  she  trusts  in  a  matter  of  this  kind.  I  will 
even  go  further,  if  you  like,  and  admit,  for  courtesy's  sake  and  for 
argument's  sake,  that  the  identity  of  Lady  Glyde,  as  a  living  person, 
is  a  proved  fact  to  Miss  Halcombe  and  yourself.  But  you  come  to 
me  for  a  legal  opinion.  As  a  lawyer,  and  as  a  lawyer  only,  it  is  my 
duty  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Hartright,  that  you  have  not  the  shadow  of  a 
case." 

"  You  put  it  strongly,  IVIr.  Kyrle." 

"  I  will  try  to  put  it  plainly  as  welL  The  evidence  of  Lady 
Clyde's  death  is,  on  the  face  of  it,  clear  and  satisfactory.  There  is 
her  aunt's  testimony  to  prove  that  she  came  to  Count  Fosco's  house, 
that  she  fell  ill,  and  that  she  died.  There  is  the  testimony  of  the 
medical  certificate  to  prove  the  death,  and  to  show  that  it  took  place 
imder  natural  circumstances.  There  is  the  fact  of  the  funeral  at 
Limmeridge,  and  there  is  the  assertion  of  the  inscription  on  the 
tomb.  That  is  the  case  you  want  to  overthrow.  What  evidence 
liave  you  to  support  the  declaration  on  your  side  that  the  person 
who  died  and  was  buried  was  not  Lady  Glyde  ?  Let  us  run  through 
the  main  points  of  your  statement  and  see  what  they  are  worth. 
Miss  Halcombe  goes  to  a  certain  private  Asylum,  and  there  sees  a 
certain  female  patient.  It  is  known  that  a  woman  named  Anne 
Catherick,  and  bearing  an  extraordinary  personal  resemblance  to 
Lady  Glyde,  escaped  from  the  Asylum  ;  it  is  known  that  the  person 
received  there  last  July,  was  received  as  Anne  Catherick  brought 
back ',  it  is  known  that  the  gentleman  who  brought  her  back  warn- 
ed Mr.  Fairlie  that  it  was  part  of  her  insanity  to  be  bent  on  person- 
ating his  dead  niece ;  and  it  is  known  that  she  did  repeatedly  de- 
clare herself,  in  the  Asylum  (where  no  one  believed  her),  to  be  Lady 
Glyde.  These  are  all  facts.  What  have  you  to  set  against  them  ? 
Miss  Halcombe's  recognition  of  the  woman,  which  recognition  af- 
ter-events invalidate  or  contradict.  Does  Miss  Halcombe  assert  her 
supposed  sister's  identity  to  the  owner  of  the  Asylum,  and  take  legal 
means  for  rescuing  her  ?  No  :  she  secretly  bribes  a  nurse  to  let  her 
escape.  When  the  patient  has  been  released  in  this  doubtful  man- 
ner, and  is  taken  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  does  he  recognize  her  ?  is  he  stag- 
gered for  one  instant  in  his  belief  of  his  niece's  death  ?  No.  Do 
the  servants  recognize  her  ?  No.  Is  she  kept  in  the  neighborhood 
to  assert  her  own  identity,  and  to  stand  the  test  of  further  proceed- 
ings ?  No :  she  is  privately  taken  to  London.  In  the  mean  time 
you  have  recognized  her  also — but  you  are  not  a  relative ;  you  are 
not  even  an  old  friend  of  the  family.  The  servants  contradict  you  ; 
and  Mr.  Fairlie  contradicts  Miss  Halcombe  ;  and  the  supposed  Lady 
Glyde  contradicts  herself.  She  declares  she  passed  the  night  in 
London  at  a  certain  house.     Your  own  evidence  shows  that  she  has 


390  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVHITE. 

never  l)een  near  that  house ;  and  your  own  admission  is,  that  her 
condition  of  mind  prevents  you  from  producing  her  anywliere  to 
sul)mit  to  investigation,  and  to  speak  for  herself,  I  pass  over  minov 
])()ints  of  evidence,  on  both  sides,  to  stive  time;  and  I  ask  you,  if 
this  case  were  to  go  now  into  a  court  of  law — to  go  before  a  jury, 
bound  to  take  facts  as  they  reasonably  appear  —  where  are  your 
proofs  V 

I  was  obliged  to  wait  and  collect  myself  before  I  could  answer 
him.  It  was  the  first  time  the  story  of  Lkiura  and  the  story  of  Mari- 
an had  been  presented  to  me  from  a  stranger's  point  of  view — the 
first  time  the  terrible  obstacles  that  lay  across  our  path  had  been 
made  to  show  themselves  in  their  true  character. 

"There  can  be  no  doubt,"  I  said,  "that  the  facts,  as  you  have 
stated  them,  appear  to  tell  against  us  ;  but — " 

"  But  you  think  those  facts  can  be  explained  away,"  interposed 
3Ir.  Kyrle.  "  Let  m:e  tell  you  the  result  of  my  experience  on  that 
point.  When  an  English  jury  has  to  choose  between  a  plain  fact, 
on  the  surface,  and  a  long  explanation  under  the  surface,  it  always 
takes  the  fact,  in  preference  to  the  explanation.  For  example,  Lady 
Glyde  (I  call  tlie  lady  you  represent  by  that  name  for  argument's 
sake)  declares  she  has  slei>t  at  a  certain  house,  and  it  is  proved  that 
she  has  not  slept  at  that  house.  You  explain  this  circumstance  by 
entering  into  the  state  of  her  mind,  and  deducing  from  it  a  meta- 
physical conclusion.  I  don't  say  the  conclusion  is  wrong — I  only 
say  that  the  jury  will  take  the  fact  of  her  contradicting  herself,  in 
preference  to  any  reason  for  the  contradiction  that  you  can  offer," 

"  But  is  it  not  possible,"  I  urged,  "  by  dint  of  patience  and  exer- 
tion, to  discover  additional  e\'idence  ?  Miss  Halcombe  and  I  have 
a  few  hundred  pounds — " 

He  looked  at  mc  with  a  half-suppressed  pity,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Consider  the  subject,  Mr.  Hartright,  from  your  own  point  of 
view,"  he  said.  "  If  you  are  right  about  Sir  Percival  Glyde  and 
Count  Fosco  (which  I  don't  admit,  mind),  every  imaginable  difficul- 
ty would  be  thrown  in  the  way  of  your  getting  fresh  evidence.  Ev- 
ery obstacle  of  litigation  would  be  raised ;  every  point  in  the  case 
would  be  systematically  contested ;  and  by  the  time  we  had  spent  our 
thousands  instead  of  our  hundreds,  the  final  result  would,  in  all  prob- 
ability, be  against  us.  Questions  of  identity,  where  instances  of  per- 
sonal resemblance  are  concerned,  are,  in  themselves,  the  hardest  of  all 
questions  to  settle — the  hardest,  even  when  they  are  free  from  the 
complications  which  beset  the  case  we  are  now  discussing.  I  really 
see  no  prospect  of  throwing  any  light  whatever  on  this  extraordina- 
ry aftair.  Even  if  the  person  buried  in  Limmcridge  church-yard  be 
not  Lady  Glyde,  she  was,  in  life,  on  your  own  showing,  so  like  her, 
that  we  should  gain  nothing  if  we  applied  for  the  necessary  author- 


HE    LOOKKD    MI-:    ATTKNTH  T.LY    IX    TIIIO    F  VCi;,   AVITII    MORi:    ArrEARANCE    OP 
INTEIili.ST    THAN'    UK   HAD    SIIOAVN    YKT. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  393 

ity  to  have  the  body  exhumed.     In  short,  there  is  uo  case,  Mr.  Hart- 
right — there  is  really  no  case." 

I  was*determined  to  believe  that  there  icas  a  case,  and,  in  that  de- 
termination, shifted  my  ground,  and  appealed  to  him  once  more. 

''Are  there  not  other  proofs  that  we  might  jDroduce  besides  the 
proof  of  identity  ?''  I  asked. 

"  Not  as  you  are  situated,"  he  replied.  '•  The  simplest  and  surest 
of  all  proofs,  the  proof  by  comparison  of  dates,  is,  as  I  understand, 
altogether  out  of  your  reach.  If  you  could  show  a  discrepancy 
between  the  date  of  the  doctor's  certificate  and  the  date  of  Lady 
Glyde's  journey  to  London,  the  matter  would  wear  a  totally  differ- 
ent aspect ;  and  I  should  be  the  first  to  say.  Let  us  go  on." 

"  That  date  may  yet  be  recovered,  Mr.  Kyrle." 

"  On  the  day  when  it  is  recovered,  Mr.  Hartright,  you  will  have  a 
case.  If  you  have  any  prospect  at  this  moment  of  getting  at  it — 
tell  me,  and  we  shall  see  if  I  can  advise  you." 

I  considered.  The  housekeeper  could  not  help  us ;  Laura  could  not 
help  us ;  Marian  could  not  help  us.  In  all  probability,  the  only  per- 
sons in  existence  who  knew  the  date  were  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count. 

"  I  can  think  of  no  means  of  ascertaining  the  date  at  present,"  I 
said,  "  because  I  can  think  of  no  persons  who  are  sure  to  know  it 
but  Count  Fosco  and  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

Mr.  Kyrle's  calmly  attentive  face  relaxed,  for  the  first  time,  into  a 
smile. 

"  With  your  opinion  of  the  conduct  of  those  two  gentlemen,"  he 
said,  "  you  don't  expect  help  in  that  quarter,  I  presume  ?  If  they 
have  combined  to  gain  large  sums  of  money  by  a  conspiracy,  they 
are  not  likely  to  confess  it,  at  any  rate." 

"  They  may  be  forced  to  confess  it,  Mr.  Kyrle." 

"  By  whom  ?" 

"  By  me." 

We  both  rose.  He  looked  me  attentively  in  the  face  with  more 
appearance  of  interest  than  he  had  shown  yet.  I  could  see  that  I 
had  perjDlexed  him  a  little. 

"  You  are  very  determined,"  he  said.  "  You  have,  no  doubt,  a  per- 
sonal motive  for  proceeding,  into  which  it  is  not  my  business  to  in- 
quire. If  a  case  can  be  produced  in  the  future,  I  can  only  say  my 
best  assistance  is  at  your  service.  At  the  same  time,  I  must  warix 
you,  as  the  money  question  always  enters  into  the  law  question,  that 
I  see  little  hope,  even  if  you  ultimately  established  the  fact  of  Lady 
Glyde's  being  alive,  of  recovering  her  fortune.  The  foreigner  would 
probably  leave  the  country  before  proceedings  were  commenced,  and 
Sir  Percival's  embarrassments  are  numerous  enough  and  pressing 
enough  to  transfer  almost  any  sum  of  money  he  may  possess  from 
himself  to  his  creditors.     You  are,  of  course,  aware — " 

17* 


394  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

I  stopped  him  at  tliat  point. 

"  Let  me  beg  that  we  may  not  discuss  Lady  Glyde's  affairs,"  I 
said.  "  I  have  never  known  any  thing  about  them  in  form^  times, 
and  I  know  nothing  of  tliem  now — except  that  her  fortune  is  lost. 
You  are  right  in  assuming  that  I  have  personal  motives  for  stirring 
in  this  matter.  I  wish  those  motives  to  be  always  as  disinterested 
as  they  are  at  the  present  moment — " 

He  tried  to  interpose  and  explain.  I  was  a  little  heated,  I  sup- 
pose, by  feeling  that  he  had  doubted  me,  and  I  went  on  bluntly, 
without  waiting  to  hear  him. 

''  There  shall  be  no  money-motive,"  I  said,  "  no  idea  of  personal 
advantage,  in  the  service  I  mean  to  render  to  Lady  Glyde.  She  has 
been  cast  out  as  a  stranger  from  the  house  in  which  she  was  born 
— a  lie  which  records  her  death  has  been  written  on  her  mother  s 
tomb — and  there  are  two  men,  alive  and  unpunished,  who  are  re- 
sponsible for  it.  That  house  shall  open  again  to  receive  her  in  the 
presence  of  every  soul  who  followed  the  false  funeral  to  the  grave: 
that  lie  shall  be  publicly  erased  from  the  tombstone,  by  the  author- 
ity of  the  head  of  the  family ;  and  those  two  men  shall  answer  for 
their  crime  to  me,  though  the  justice  that  sits  in  tribunals  is  power- 
less to  pursue  them.  I  have  given  my  life  to  that  purpose,  and. 
alone  as  I  stand,  if  God  spares  me,  I  will  accomplish  it." 

He  drew  back  toward  his  table,  and  said  nothing.  His  face  show- 
ed plainly  that  he  thought  my  delusion  had  got  the  better  of  my  rea- 
son, and  that  he  considered  it  totally  useless  to  give  me  any  more 
advice. 

"  We  each  keep  our  opinion,  Mr.  Kyrle,"  I  said,  "  and  we  must  wait 
till  the  events  of  the  future  decide  between  us.  In  the  mean  time,  I 
am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  attention  you  have  given  to  my 
statement.  You  have  shown  me  that  the  legal  remedy  lies,  in  ev- 
ery sense  of  the  word,  beyond  our  means.  We  can  not  produce  the 
law-proof,  and  we  are  not  rich  enough  to  pay  the  law-expenses.  It 
is  something  gained  to  know  that." 

I  bowed,  and  walked  to  the  door.  He  called  me  back,  and  gave 
me  the  letter  which  I  had  seen  him  place  on  the  table  by  itself  at 
the  beginning  of  our  interview. 

"  This  came  by  post,  a  few  days  ago,''  he  said.  "  Perhaps  you  will 
not  mind  delivering  it  ?  Pray  tell  Miss  Halcombe,  at  the  same  time, 
that  I  sincerely  regret  being,  thus  fiir,  unable  to  help  her — except  by 
advice,  which  will  not  be  more  welcome,  I  am  aii-aid,  to  her  than  to 
you." 

I  looked  at  the  letter  while  he  was  speaking.  It  was  addressed 
to  "  Miss  Halcombe.  Care  of  Messrs.  Gilmore  and  Kyrle,  Chancery 
Lane."     The  handwriting  was  quite  unknown  to  me. 

On  leaving  the  room,  I  asked  one  last  question. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  395 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know,"  I  said,  "  if  Sir  Percival  Glyde  is  still 
in  Paris  ?'' 

''He  has  returned  to  London,''  replied  ]Mr.  Kyrle.  "At  least  I 
heard  so  from  his  solicitor,  whom  I  met  yesterday." 

After  that  answer  I  went  out. 

On  leaving  the  office,  the  first  precaution  to  be  observed  was  to 
abstain  from  attracting  attention  by  stopping  to  look  about  me.  I 
walked  toward  one  of  the  quietest  of  the  large  squares  on  the  north 
of  Holborn — then  suddenly  stopped,  and  turned  round  at  a  jDlace 
where  a  long  stretch  of  pavement  was  left  behind  me. 

There  were  two  men  at  the  comer  of  the  square  who  had  stojDped 
also,  and  who  were  standing  talking  together.  After  a  moment's 
reflection,  I  turned  back  so  as  to  pass  them.  One  moved,  as  I  came 
near,  and  turned  the  corner  leading  from  the  square  into  the  street. 
The  other  remained  stationary.  I  looked  at  him  as  I  passed,  and 
instantly  recognized  one  of  the  men  who  had  watched  me  before  I 
left  England. 

If  I  had  been  free  to  follow  my  own  instincts,  I  should  probably 
have  begun  by  speaking  to  the  man,  and  have  ended  by  knocking 
him  down.  But  I  was  bound  to  consider  consequences.  If  I  once 
placed  myself  publicly  in  the  wrong,  I  put  the  weapons  at  once  into 
Sir  Percival's  hands.  There  was  no  choice  but  to  oppose  cunning 
by  cunning.  I  turned  into  the  street  down  which  the  second  man 
had  disappeared,  and  passed  him,  waiting  in  a  door-way.  He  was 
a  stranger  to  me ;  and  I  was  glad  to  make  sure  of  his  personal  ap- 
pearance, in  case  of  future  annoyance.  Having  done  this,  I  again 
walked  northward,  till  I  reached  the  New-road.  There,  I  turned 
aside  to  the  west  (having  the  men  behind  me  all  the  time),  and 
w\aited  at  a  point  where  I  knew  myself  to  be  at  some  distance  from 
a  cab-stand,  until  a  fast  two-wheel  cab,  empty,  should  happen  to  pass 
me.  One  passed  in  a  few  minutes.  I  jumped  in,  and  told  the  man 
to  drive  rapidly  toward  Hyde  Park.  There  was  no  second  fast  cab 
for  the  spies  behind  me.  I  saw  them  dart  across  to  the  other  side 
of  the  road,  to  follow  me  by  running,  until  a  cab,  or  a  cab-stand, 
came  in  their  way.  But  I  had  the  start  of  them ;  and  when  I  stop- 
ped the  driver,  and  got  out,  they  were  nowhere  in  sight.  I  crossed 
Hyde  Park,  and  made  sure,  on  the  open  ground,  that  I  was  free. 
When  I  at  last  turned  my  steps  homeward,  it  was  not  till  many 
hours  later — not  till  after  dark. 

I  found  Marian  waiting  for  me,  alone  in  the  little  sitting-room. 
She  had  persuaded  Laura  to  go  to  rest,  after  first  promising  to  show 
me  her  drawing,  the  moment  I  came  in.  The  poor  little  dim  faint 
sketch  —  so  trifling  in  itself,  so  touching  in  its  associations — was 
propped  up  carefully  on  the  table  with  two  books,  and  was  placed 


396  THE    WOMAX    IX    WHITE. 

where  the  faint  light  of  the  one  candle  we  allowed  ourselves  might 
fall  on  it  to  the  best  advantage.  I  sat  down  to  look  at  the  drawing, 
and  to  tell  3Iarian,  in  whispers,  what  had  happened.  The  partition 
which  divided  us  from  the  next  room  was  so  thin  that  we  could  al- 
most hear  Laura's  breathing,  and  we  might  have  disturbed  her  if 
we  had  spoken  aloud, 

]\Iariau  preserved  her  composure  while  I  described  my  interview 
with  Mr,  Kyrle,  But  her  face  became  troubled  when  I  spoke  next 
of  the  men  who  had  followed  me  fi'om  the  lawyer's  office,  and  when 
I  told  her  of  the  discovery  of  Sir  PercivaFs  return. 

''  Bad  news,  Walter,"  she  said ;  "  the  worst  news  you  could  bring. 
Have  you  nothing  more  to  tell  me  ?" 

''  I  have  something  to  give  you,"  I  replied,  handing  her  the  note 
which  ;Mr.  Kyrle  had  confided  to  my  care. 

She  looked  at  the  address,  and  recognized  the  handwriting  in- 
stantly, 

"■  You  know  your  correspondent  ?"  I  said, 

"  Too  well,"  she  answered.     "  My  correspondent  is  Count  Fosco." 

With  that  reply  she  opened  the  note.  Her  face  flushed  deeply 
while  she  read  it — her  eyes  brightened  with  anger,  as  she  handed  it 
to  me  to  read  in  my  turn. 

The  note  contained  these  lines : 

"  Impelled  by  honorable  admiration — honorable  to  myself,  honor- 
able to  you — I  write,  magnificent  Marian,  in  the  interests  of  your 
tranquillity,  to  say  two  consoling  words : 

"  Fear  nothing ! 

"Exercise  your  fine  natural  sense,  and  remain  in  retirement. 
Dear  and  admirable  woman,  in\dte  no  dangerous  publicity.  Resig- 
nation is  sublime — adopt  it.  The  modest  repose  of  home  is  eternal- 
ly fresh — enjoy  it.  The  storms  of  life  pass  harmless  over  the  valley 
of  Seclusion — dwell,  dear  lady,  in  the  valley. 

"  Do  this,  and  I  authorize  you  to  fear  nothing.  No  new  calamity 
shall  lacerate  your  sensibilities — sensibilities  precious  to  me  as  my 
own.  You  shall  not  be  molested ;  the  fair  companion  of  your  re- 
treat shall  not  be  pursued.  She  has  found  a  new  asylum  in  your 
heart.     Priceless  asylum ! — I  envy  her,  and  leave  here  there. 

"  One  last  word  of  afiectionate  warning,  of  paternal  caution — and 
I  tear  myself  from  the  charm  of  addressing  you ;  I  close  these  fer- 
vent lines. 

"Advance  no  further  than  you  have  gone  already;  compromise 
no  serious  interests;  threaten  nobody.  Do  not,  I  implore  you,  force 
me  into  action — Me,  the  Man  of  Action — when  it  is  the  cherished 
object  of  my  ambition  to  be  passive,  to  rcst-'co  the  vast  reach  of  my 
energies  and  my  combinations,  for  your  sake.     If  you  have  rash 


rnE    AVOMAX    IN    WHITE.  397 

friends,  moderate  their  deplorable  ardor.  If  IVIr.  Hartright  returns 
to  England,  hold  no  communication  with  him.  I  walk  on  a  path 
of  my  own  ;  and  Percival  follows  at  mj^  heels.  On  the  day  when 
!Mr.  Hartright  crosses  that  path,  he  is  a  lost  man." 

The  only  signature  to  these  lines  was  the  initial  letter  F,  sur- 
rounded by  a  circle  of  intricate  flourishes.  I  threw  the  letter  on 
the  table,  with  all  the  contempt  that  I  felt  for  it. 

"  He  is  trying  to  frighten  you — a  sure  sign  that  he  is  frightened 
himself,"  I  said. 

She  was  too  genuine  a  woman  to  treat  the  letter  as  I  treated  it. 
The  insolent  familiarity  of  the  language  was  too  much  for  her  self- 
control.  As  she  looked  at  me  across  the  table,  her  hands  clenched 
themselves  in  her  lap,  and  the  old,  quick,  fiery  temper  flamed  out 
again  brightly  in  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes. 

"  "Walter !"  she  said,  "  if  ever  those  two  men  are  at  your  mercy, 
and  if  you  are  obliged  to  spare  one  of  them — don't  let  it  be  the 
Count."^ 

"I  will  keep  his  letter,  Marian,  to  help  my  memory  when  the 
time  comes." 

She  looked  at  me  attentively  as  I  put  the  letter  away  in  my  pock- 
et-book. ' 

"When  the  time  comes?"  she  repeated,  "Can  you  speak  of  the 
future  as  if  you  were  certain  of  it  ? — certain,  after  what  you  have 
heard  in  Mr.  Kyrle's  office,  after  what  has  happened  to  you  to-day  ?" 

"  I  don't  count  the  time  from  to-day,  Marian.  All  I  have  done 
to-day  is  to  ask  another  man  to  act  for  me.  I  count  from  to-mor- 
row— " 

"  Why  from  to-morrow  ?" 

"  Because  to-morrow  I  mean  to  act  for  myself." 

"How?" 

"  I  shall  go  to  Blackwater  by  the  first  train,  and  return,  I  hope,  at 
night." 

"  To  Blackwater  ?" 

"Yes.  I  have  had  time  to  think,  since  I  left  Mr.  Kyrle.  His 
opinion,  on  one  point,  confirms  my  own.  We  must  persist  to  the 
last  in  hunting  down  the  date  of  Laura's  journey.  The  one  weak 
point  in  the  conspiracy,  and  probably  the  one  chance  of  proving 
that  she  is  a  living  woman,  centres  in  the  discovery  of  that  date." 

"  You  mean,''  said  Marian,  "  the  discovery  that  Laura  did  not 
leave  Blackwater  Park  till  after  the  date  of  her  death  on  the  doc- 
tor's certificate  ?" 

"Certainly."  i 

"  What  makes  you  thiiii  it  might  have  been  after  ?  Laura  can 
tell  us  nothing  of  the  time  she  was  in  London." 


398  THE    WOMAN    IN   AVIIITE. 

"  But  tlic  owner  of  the  Asylum  told  you  that  slio  was  received 
there  on  the  twenty-seventh  of  Jul3^  I  doubt  Count  Fosco's  ability 
to  keep  her  in  London,  and  to  keep  her  insensible  to  all  that  was 
passing  around  her,  more  than  one  night.  In  that  case  she  must 
have  started  on  the  twenty-sixth,  and  must  have  come  to  London 
one  day  after  the  date  of  her  own  death  on  the  doctor's  certificate. 
If  we  can  prove  that  date,  we  prove  our  case  against  Sir  Percival 
and  the  Count." 

''  Yes,  yes — I  see  !     But  how  is  the  proof  to  be  obtained  ?" 

"Mrs.  Michelson's  narrative  has  suggested  to  me  two  w^ays  of  try- 
ing to  obtain  it.  One  of  them  is  to  question  the  doctor,  Mr.  Daw- 
son— who  must  know  w^hen  he  resumed  his  attendance  at  Blackwa- 
ter  Park,  after  Laura  left  the  house.  The  other  is,  to  make  inquiries 
at  the  inn  to  which  Sir  Percival  drove  aw^ay  by  himself,  at  night. 
We  know  that  his  departure  followed  Laura's,  after  the  lapse  of  a 
few  hours ;  and  we  may  get  at  the  date  in  that  way.  The  attempt 
is  at  least  worth  making — and,  to-mon'ow,  I  am  determined  it  shall 
be  made." 

"And  suppose  it  fails — I  look  at  the  worst,  now^,  Walter ;  but  I 
will  look  at  the  best,  if  disappointments  come  to  try  us — suppose  no 
one  can  help  you  at  Blackwater  ?" 

"  There  are  two  men  who  can  help  me,  and  shall  help  me,  in  Lon- 
don— Sir  Percival  and  the  Count.  Innocent  people  may  well  for- 
get the  date ;  but  they  are  guilty,  and  they  know  it.  If  I  fail  every- 
where else,  I  mean  to  force  a  confession  out  of  one  or  both  of  them, 
on  my  ow  n  terms." 

All  the  woman  flushed  up  in  Marian's  face  as  I  spoke. 

"  Begin  with  the  Count  I"  she  whispered,  eagerly.  '•  For  my  sake, 
begin  with  the  Count.'' 

"  We  must  begin,  for  Laura's  sake,  where  there  is  the  best  chance 
of  success,"  I  replied. 

The  color  faded  from  her  face  again,  and  she  shook  her  head 
sadly. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  you  are  right — it  was  mean  and  miserable  of 
me  to  say  that.  I  try  to  be  patient,  Walter,  and  succeed  better  now 
than  I  did  in  happier  times.  But  I  have  a  little  of  my  old  temr 
per  still  left,  and  it  uill  get  the  better  of  me  when  I  think  of  the 
Count !" 

"  His  turn  will  come,"  I  said.  "  But  remember,  there  is  no  weak 
place  in  his  life  that  we  know  of,  yet."  I  waited  a  little  to  let  her 
recover  her  self-possession,  and  then  spoke  the  decisive  words  : 

"  Marian  !  There  is  a  weak  place  we  both  know  of  in  Sir  Perci- 
vaVs  life—" 

"  You  mean  the  secret !" 

"  Yes :  the  Secret.     It  is  our  only  sure  hold  on  him.     I  can  force 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  399 

him  from  his  position  of  security,  I  can  drag  him  and  his  villainy 
into  the  face  of  day,  by  no  other  means.  Whatever  the  Count  may 
have  done.  Sir  Percival  has  consented  to  the  conspiracy  against 
Laura  from  another  motive  besides  the  motive  of  gain.  You  heard 
him  tell  the  Count  that  he  believed  his  wife  knew  enough  to  ruin 
him  ?  You  heard  him  say  that  he  was  a  lost  man  if  the  secret  of 
Anne  Catherick  was  known  ?" 

"  Yes  !  yes  I     I  did."' 

"  Well,  Marian,  when  our  other  resources  have  failed  us,  I  mean  to 
know  the  secret.  My  old  superstition  clings  to  me,  even  yet.  I  say 
again  the  woman  in  white  is  a  living  influence  in  our  three  lives. 
The  End  is  appointed ;  the  End  is  drawing  us  on — and  Anne  Cath- 
erick, dead  in  her  grave.  jDoints  the  way  to  it  still !" 

V. 

The  story  of  my  first  inquiries  in  Hampshire  is  soon  told. 

My  early  departure  from  London  enabled  me  to  reach  Mr.  Daw- 
son's house  in  the  forenoon.  Our  interview,  so  far  as  the  object  of 
my  visit  was  concerned,  led  to  no  satisfactory  result. 

Mr.  Dawson's  books  certainly  showed  when  he  had  resumed  his 
attendance  on  Miss  Halcombe  at  Blackwater  Park,  Ijut  it  was  not 
possible  to  calculate  back  from  this  date  vrith  any  exactness,  with- 
out such  help  from  Mrs.  Michelson  as  I  knew  she  was  unable  to  af- 
ford. She  could  not  say  from  memor}'  (who,  in  similar  cases,  ever 
can  ?)  how  many  days  had  elapsed  betvreen  the  renewal  of  the  doc- 
tor's attendance  on  his  patient  and  the  previous  departure  of  Lady 
Clyde.  She  was  almost  certain  of  having  mentioned  the  circum- 
stance of  the  departure  to  Miss  Halcombe  on  the  day  after  it  hap- 
pened— but  then  she  was  no  more  able  to  fix  the  date  of  the  day  on 
which  this  disclosure  took  place  than  to  fix  the  date  of  the  day  be- 
fore, when  Lady  Clyde  had  left  for  London,  Xeither  could  she  calcu- 
late, with  any  nearer  approach  to  exactness,  the  time  that  had  pass- 
ed from  the  departure  of  her  mistress  to  the  period  tvhen  the  undated 
letter  from  ]SLadame  Tosco  arrived.  Lastly,  as  if  to  complete  the 
series  of  difiiculties,  the  doctor  himself,  having  been  ill  at  the  time, 
had  omitted  to  make  his  usual  entry  of  the  day  of  the  week  and 
month  when  the  gardener  from  Blackwater  Park  had  called  on  him 
to  deliver  Mrs,  Michelson's  message. 

Hopeless  of  obtaining  assistance  from  Mr.  Dawson,  I  resolved  tc 
try  next  if  I  could  establish  the  date  of  Sir  Percival's  arrival  at 
Knowlesbury. 

It  seemed  like  a  fatality  I  When  I  reached  Knowlesburj-  the  inn 
was  shut  up,  and  bills  were  posted  on  the  walls.  The  speculation 
had  been  a  bad  one,  as  I  was  informed,  ever  since  the  time  of  the 
railway.     The  new  hotel  at  the  station  had  gradually  absorbed  the 


400  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

business,  and  the  old  inn  (which  we  knew  to  be  the  inn  at  whicl\ 
Sir  Percival  liad  put  up)  had  been  closed  about  two  months  since. 
The  i)roprietor  had  left  the  town  with  all  his  goods  and  chattels, 
and  wliere  he  had  gone  I  could  not  positively  ascertain  from  any 
one.  Tlic  four  people  of  whom  I  inquired  gave  me  four  diflferent 
accounts  of  his  })lans  and  projects  when  he  left  Knowlesbury. 

There  were  still  some  hours  to  spare  before  the  last  train  left  for 
London,  and  I  drove  back  again  in  a  fly,  from  the  Knowlesbury  sta- 
!:ion  to  Blackwater  Park,  with  the  purpose  of  questioning  the  gar- 
dener and  the  person  who  kept  the  lodge.  If  they,  too,  proved  un- 
able to  assist  me,  my  resources,  for  the  present,  were  at  an  end,  and 
I  might  return  to  town. 

I  dismissed  the  fly  a  mile  distant  from  the  park,  and,  getting  my 
directions  from  the  driver,  proceeded  by  myself  to  the  house. 

As  I  turned  into  the  lane  from  the  high-road,  I  saw  a  man,  with  a 
carpet-])ag,  walking  before  me  rapidly  on  the  w^ay  to  the  lodge.  He 
was  a  little  man,  dressed  in  shabby  black,  and  wearing  a  remarkably 
large  hat.  I  set  him  down  (as  well  as  it  was  possible  to  judge)  for 
a  lawyer's  clerk,  and  stopped  at  once  to  widen  the  distance  between 
us.  He  had  not  heard  me,  and  he  walked  on  out  of  sight,  without 
looking  back.  When  I  passed  through  the  gates  myself  a  little 
while  afterward,  he  was  not  visible — he  had  evidently  gone  on  to 
the  house. 

There  were  two  women  in  the  lodge.  One  of  them  was  old ;  the 
other  I  knew  at  once,  by  Marian's  description  of  her,  to  be  Margaret 
Porcher. 

I  asked  first  if  Sir  Percival  was  at  the  park,  and,  receiving  a  reply 
in  the  negative,  inquired  next  when  he  had  left  it.  Neither  of  the 
women  could  tell  me  more  than  that  he  had  gone  away  in  the  sum- 
mer. I  could  extract  nothing  from  Margaret  Porcher  but  vacant 
smiles  and  shakings  of  the  head.  The  old  woman  was  a  little  more 
intelligent,  and  I  managed  to  lead  her  into  speaking  of  the  manner 
of  Sir  Pcrcival's  departure,  and  of  the  alarm  that  it  caused  her.  She 
remembered  her  master  calling  her  out  of  bed,  and  remembered  his 
frightening  her  by  swearing,  but  the  date  at  which  the  occurrence 
happened  was,  as  she  honestly  acknowledged,  "  quite  beyond  her." 

On  lea\dng  the  lodge,  I  saw  the  gardener  at  work,  not  far  ofi: 
When  I  first  addressed  him  he  looked  at  me  rather  distrustfully,  but 
on  my  using  jVIrs.  Michelson's  name,  with  a  civil  reference  to  himself, 
he  entered  into  conversation  readily  enough.  There  is  no  need  to 
describe  what  passed  between  us :  it  ended  as  all  my  other  attempts 
to  discover  the  date  had  ended.  The  gardener  knew  that  his  mas- 
ter had  driven  away,  at  night,  "  some  time  in  July,  the  last  fortnight 
or  the  last  ten  days  in  the  month  " — and  knew  no  more. 

AVhile  we  were  speaking  together,  I  saw  the  man  in  black,  with 


THE    AVOMAX    IX    WHITE.  401 

the  large  liat,  come  out  from  the  house,  and  stand  at  some  little  dis- 
tance observing  us. 

Certain  suspicions  of  his  errand  at  Blackwater  Park  had  already 
crossed  my  mind.  They  were  now  increased  by  the  gardener's  ina- 
bility (or  unwillingness)  to  tell  me  who  the  man  was;  and  I  deter- 
mined to  clear  the  way  before  me,  if  possible,  by  speaking  to  him. 
The  plainest  question  I  could  put,  as  a  stranger,  would  be  to  inquire 
if  the  house  was  allowed  to  be  shown  to  visitors.  I  walked  up  to 
the  man  at  once,  and  accosted  him  in  those  words. 

His  look  and  manner  unmistakably  betrayed  that  he  knew  who  I 
was,  and  that  he  wanted  to  irritate  me  into  quarreling  with  him. 
His  reply  was  insolent  enough  to  have  answered  the  purpose,  if  I 
had  been  less  determined  to  control  myself.  As  it  was,  I  met  him 
with  the  most  resolute  politeness,  apologized  for  my  involuntary  in- 
trusion (which  he  called  a  ''trespass"),  and  left  the  grounds.  It 
was  exactly  as  I  suspected.  The  recognition  of  me,  when  I  left  Mr. 
Kyrle's  office,  had  been  evidently  communicated  to  Sir  Percival 
Glyde,  and  the  man  in  black  had  been  sent  to  the  park  in  anticipa- 
tion of  my  making  inquiries  at  the  house,  or  in"  the  neighborhood. 
If  I  had  given  him  the  least  chance  of  lodging  any  sort  of  legal  com- 
plaint against  me,  the  interference  of  the  local  magistrate  would  no 
doubt  have  been  turned  to  account,  as  a  clog  on  my  proceedings,  and 
a  means  of  separating  me  from  Marian  and  Laura  for  some  days  at 
least. 

I  was  prepared  to  be  watched  on  the  way  from  Blackwater  Park 
to  the  station,  exactly  as  I  had  been  watched,  in  London,  the  day 
liefore.  But  I  could  not  discover  at  the  time  whether  I  was  really 
followed  on  this  occasion  or  not.  The  man  in  black  might  have 
had  means  of  tracking  me  at  his  disposal  of  which  I  was  not  aware 
— but  I  certainly  saw  nothing  of  him,  in  his  own  person,  either  on 
the  way  to  the  station,  or  afterward  on  my  arrival  at  the  London 
terminus,  in  the  evening.  I  reached  home  on  foot,  taking  the  pre- 
caution, before  I  approached  our  own  door,  of  walking  round  Ijy 
the  loneliest  street  in  the  neighborhood,  and  there  stopping  and 
looking  back  more  than  once  over  the  open  space  behind  me.  I 
had  first  learned  to  use  this  stratagem  against  susjoected  treachery 
in  the  wilds  of  Central  America — and  now  I  was  practicing  it  again, 
with  the  same  purpose  and  with  even  greater  caution,  in  the  heart 
of  civilized  London  I 

Nothing  had  happened  to  alarm  Marian  during  my  absence.  She 
asked  eagerly  what  success  I  had  met  with.  When  I  told  her,  she 
could  not  conceal  her  surjjrise  at  the  indiflerence  with  which  I  spoke 
of  the  failure  of  my  investigations  thus  far. 

The  truth  was,  that  the  ill-success  of  my  inquiries  had  in  no  sense 
daunted  me.     I  had  pursued  them  as  a  matter  of  duty,  and  I  had  ex- 


402  THE    WOMxVX   IN   WHITE. 

pectcd  nothing  from  them.  In  the  state  of  my  mind  at  tliat  time  i*: 
was  ahnost  a  relief  to  me  to  know  that  the  struggle  was  now  nar- 
rowed to  a  trial  of  strength  between  myself  and  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 
The  vindictive  motive  had  mingled  itself,  all  along,  with  my  other 
and  l^etter  motives ;  and  I  confess  it  was  a  satisfaction  to  me  to  fec\ 
that  the  surest  way — the  only  way  left — of  serving  Laura's  cause 
was  to  fasten  my  hold  firmly  on  the  villain  who  had  married  her. 

While  I  acknowledge  that  I  was  not  strong  enough  to  keep  my 
motives  above  the  reach  of  this  instinct  of  revenge,  I  cm  honestly 
say  something  in  my  ovm.  favor  on  the  otlier  side.  No  base  specu* 
lation  on  the  future  relations  of  Laura  and  myself,  and  on  the  pri' 
vate  and  personal  concessions  which  I  might  force  from  Sir  Percival 
if  I  once  had  him  at  my  mercy,  ever  entered  my  mind.  I  never  said 
to  myself,  "  If  I  do  succeed,  it  shall  be  one  result  of  my  success  that 
I  put  it  out  of  her  husband's  power  to  take  her  from  me  again."  I 
could  not  look  at  her  and  think  of  the  future  with  such  thoughts  as 
those.  The  sad  sight  of  the  change  in  her  from  her  former  self 
made  the  one  interest  of  my  love  an  interest  of  tenderness  and  com- 
passion which  her  father  or  her  brother  might  have  felt,  and  which 
I  felt,  God  knows,  in  my  inmost  heart.  All  my  hopes  looked  no 
further  on,  now,  than  to  thv  lay  of  her  recovery.  There,  till  she  was 
strong  again  and  happy  again — there,  till  she  could  look  at  me  as 
she  had  once  looked,  and  speak  to  me  as  she  had  once  spoken— the 
future  of  my  happiest  thoughts  and  my  dearest  wishes  ended. 

These  words  are  written  under  no  prompting  of  idle  self-contem- 
plation. Passages  in  this  narrative  are  soon  to  come  which  will  set 
the  minds  of  others  in  judgment  on  my  conduct.  It  is  right  that 
the  best  and  the  worst  of  me  should  be  fairly  balanced  before  that 
time. 

On  the  morning  after  my  return  from  Hampshire,  I  took  Marian 
up  stairs  into  my  working-room,  and  there  laid  before  her  the  plan 
that  I  had  matured,  thus  far,  for  mastering  the  one  assailable  point 
in  the  life  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 

The  way  to  the  Secret  lay  through  the  mystery,  hitherto  impene- 
trable to  all  of  us,  of  the  woman  in  white.  The  approach  to  that, 
in  its  turn,  might  be  gained  by  obtaining  the  assistance  of  Anne 
Catherick's  mother;  and  the  only  ascertainable  means  of  prevailing 
on  Mrs.  Catherick  to  act  or  to  speak  in  the  matter  depended  on  tlie 
chance  of  my  discovering  local  particulars  and  fomily  particulars, 
first  of  all,  from  Mrs.  Clements.  After  thinking  the  subject  over 
carefully,  I  felt  certain  that  I  could  only  begin  the  new  inquiries  bj 
placing' myself  in  communication  with  the  laithful  friend  and  pro 
tectress  of  Anne  Catherick. 

The  first  difficulty,  then,  was  to  find  Mi-s.  Clements. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  403 

I  was  indebted  to  Marian's  quick  perception  for  meeting  this  ne- 
cessity at  once  by  the  best  and  simplest  means.  She  proposed  to 
write  to  the  ftirm  near  Limmeridge  (Todd's  Corner),  to  Inquire 
whetlier  Mrs.  Clements  had  communicated  with  Mrs.  Todd  during 
the  past  few  months.  How  Mrs,  Clements  had  been  separated  from 
Anne,  it  was  impossible  for  us  to  say ;  but  that  separation  once  ef- 
fected, it  would  certainly  occur  to  Mrs.  Clements  to  inquire  after 
the  missing  woman  in  the  neighborhood  of  all  others  to  which  she 
was  known  to  be  most  attached — the  neighborhood  of  Limmeridge. 
I  saw  directly  that  Marian's  proposal  offered  us  a  prospect  of  suc- 
cess, and  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Todd  accordingly  by  that  day's  post. 

While  we  were  waiting  for  the  reply,  I  made  myself  master  of  all 
the  information  Marian  could  afford  on  the  subject  of  Sir  Percival's 
family,  and  of  his  early  life.  She  could  only  speak  on  these  topics 
from  hearsay,  but  she  was  reasonably  certain  of  the  truth  of  what 
little  she  had  to  tell. 

"^  Sir  Percival  was  an  only  child.  His  father,  Sir  Felix  Clyde,  had 
suffered,  from  his  birth,  under  a  painful  and  incurable  deformity, 
and  had  shunned  all  society  from  his  earliest  years.  His  sole  hap- 
piness was  in  the  enjoyment  of  music,  and  he  had  mamed  a  lady 
with  tastes  similar  to  his  own,  who  waJ'  said  to  be  a  most  accom- 
plished musician.  He  inherited  the  Blackwater  property  while  still 
a  young  ma^.  Neither  he  nor  his  wife,  after  taking  possession, 
made  advances  of  any  sort  toward  the  society  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  no  one  endeavored  to  tempt  them  into  abandoning  their  re- 
serve, with  the  one  disastrous  exception  of  the  rector  of  the  parish. 

The  rector  was  the  worst  of  all  innocent  mischief-makers  —  an 
over-zealous  man.  He  had  heard  that  Six  Felix  had  left  College 
with  the  character  of  being  little  better  than  a  revolutionist  in  pol- 
itics and  an  inficiei  in  religion,  and  he  arrived  conscientiously  at  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  his  bounden  duty  to  summon  the  lord  of  the 
manor  to  hear  sound  views  enunciated  in  the  parish  church.  Sir 
Felix  fiercely  resented  the  clergyman's  well-meant  but  ill-directed 
interference,  insulting  him  so  grossly  and  so  publicly  that  the  fami- 
lies in  the  neighborhood  sent  letters  of  indignant  remonstrance  tc 
the  park ;  and  even  the  tenants  on  the  Blackwater  property  ex- 
pressed their  opinion  as  strongly  as  they  dared.  The  baronet,  who 
had  no  country  tastes  of  any  kind,  and  no  attachment  to  the  estate, 
or  to  any  one  living  on  it,  declared  that  society  at  Blackwater  should 
never  have  a  second  chance  of  annoying  him,  and  left  the  place  from 
that  moment. 

After  a  short  residence  in  London,  he  and  his  wife  departed  for 
the  Continent,  and  never  returned  to  England  again.  They  lived 
part  of  the  time  in  France,  and  part  in  Germany,  always  keeping 
themselves  in  the  strict  retirement  which  the  morbid  sense  of  his 


404:  TilE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

own  personal  deforniity  liad  made  a  necessity  to  Sir  Felix.  Tlieii 
son,  Percival,  had  l)een  bom  abroad,  and  had  been  educated  there 
by  private  tutors.  His  mother  was  the  first  of  his  parents  whom  he 
lost.  His  father  had  died  a  few  years  after  her,  either  in  1825  or 
1826.  Sir  Percival  had  been  in  England,  as  a  young  man,  once  or 
twice  before  that  period;  but  his  acquaintance  with  the  late  Mr. 
Fairlie  did  not  begin  till  after  the  time  of  his  father's  death.  They 
soon  became  very  intimate,  although  Sir  Percival  was  seldom,  or 
never,  at  Limmeridge  House  in  those  days.  Mr.  Frederick  Fairlie 
might  have  met  him  once  or  twice  in  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie's  company, 
but  he  could  have  known  little  of  him  at  that  or  at  any  other  time. 
Sir  Percival's  only  intimate  friend  in  the  Fairlie  family  had  been 
Laura's  father. 

These  were  all  the  particulars  that  I  could  gain  from  Marian. 
They  suggested  nothing  which  was  useful  to  my  present  purpose, 
but  I  noted  them  down  carefully,  in  the  event  of  their  proving  to  be 
of  imjDortance  at  any  future  period. 

Mrs.  Todd's  reply  (addressed,  by  our  own  wish,  to  a  post-office  at 
some  distance  from  us)  had  arrived  at  its  destination  when  I  went 
to  apply  for  it.  The  chances,  which  had  been  all  against  us  hither- 
to, turned,  from  this  moment,  in  our  favor.  Mrs.  Todd's  letter  con- 
tained the  first  item  of  information  of  which  we  were  in  search. 

Mrs.  Clements,  it  appeared,  had  (as  we  had  conjectured)  written 
to  Todd's  Corner,  asking  pardon,  in  the  first  place,  for  the  abrupt 
manner  in  which  she  and  Anne  had  left  their  Mends  at  the  farm- 
house (on  the  morning  after  I  had  met  the  woman  in  white  in  Lim- 
meridge church-yard) ;  and  then  informing  Mrs.  Todd  of  Anne's 
disappearance,  and  entreating  that  she  would  cause  inquiries  to  be 
made  in  the  neighborhood,  on  the  chance  that  the  lost  woman  might 
have  strayed  back  to  Limmeridge.  In  making  this  request,  Mrs, 
Clements  had  been  careful  to  add  to  it  the  address  at  which  she 
might  always  be  heard  of;  and  that  address  Mrs.  Todd  now  trans- 
mitted to  ^Marian.  It  was  in  London,  and  within  half  an  hour's 
walk  of  our  own  lodging. 

In  the  words  of  the  proverb,  I  was  resolved  not  to  let  the  grass 
grow  under  my  feet.  The  next  morning  I  set  forth  to  seek  an  in- 
terview with  Mrs.  Clements.  This  was  my  first  step  forward  in  the 
investigation.  The  story  of  the  desperate  attempt  to  which  I  now 
stood  committed  begins  here. 

VI. 

The  address  communicated  by  Mrs.  Todd  took  me  to  a  lodging* 
house  situated  in  a  respectable  street  near  the  Gray's-Inn  Road. 

When  I  knocked,  the  door  was  opened  by  !Mrs.  Clements  herself. 
She  did  not  appear  to  remember  me,  and  asked  what  my  business 


THE    AVOMAN   IX   WHITE.  405 

was.  I  recalled  to  lier  our  meeting  in  Limmeridge  cliurch-yard,  at 
the  close  of  my  interview  there  with  the  woman  in  white,  taking 
special  care  to  remind  her  that  I  was  the  person  who  assisted  Anne 
Catherick  (as  Anne  bad  herself  declared)  to  escape  the  pursuit  from 
the  Asylum.  This  was  my  only  claim  to  the  confidence  of  Mrs. 
Clements.  She  remembered  the  circumstance  the  moment  I  spoke 
of  it,  and  asked  me  into  the  parlor,  in  the  greatest  anxiety  to  know 
if  I  had  brought  her  any  news  of  Anne. 

It  was  impossible  for  me  to  tell  her  the  whole  truth  without,  at 
the  same  time,  entering  into  particulars  on  the  sul^ject  of  the  con- 
spiracy which  it  would  have  been  dangerous  to  confide  to  a  stran- 
ger. I  could  only  abstain  most  carefully  from  raising  any  false 
hopes,  and  then  exjDlain  that  the  object  of  my  visit  was  to  discover 
the  persons  who  were  really  responsible  for  Anne's  disappearance. 
I  even  added,  so  as  to  exonerate  mj'self  from  any  after-reproach  of 
my  own  conscience,  that  I  entertained  not  the  least  hope  of  being 
able  to  trace  her;  that  I  believed  we  should  never  see  her  alive 
again ;  and  that  my  main  interest  in  the  affair  was  to  bring  to  pun- 
ishment two  men  whom  I  susj^ected  to  be  concerned  in  luring  her 
away,  and  at  whose  hands  I  and  some  dear  friends  of  mine  had  suf- 
fered a  grievous  wrong.  With  this  explanation,  I  left  it  to  ]\[rs. 
Clements  to  say  whether  our  interest  in  the  matter  (whatever  difier- 
ence  there  might  be  in  the  motives  w^hich  actuated  us)  was  not  the 
same,  and.  whether  she  felt  any  reluctance  to  forward  my  object  by 
giving  me  such  infomiation  on  the  subject  of  my  inquiries  as  she 
happened  to  possess. 

The  poor  woman  was,  at  first,  too  much  confused  and  agitated  to 
understand  thoroughly  what  I  said  to  her.  She  could  only  reply 
that  I  was  welcome  to  any  thing  she  could  tell  me  in  return  for  the 
kindness  I  had  shown  to  Anne.  But  as  she  was  not  very  quick  and 
ready,  at  the  best  of  times,  in  talking  to  strangers,  she  would  beg 
me  to  put  her  in  the  right  way,  and  to  say  where  I  wished  her  to 
begin. 

Knowing  by  experience  that  the  plainest  narrative  attainable  from 
persons  who  are  not  accustomed  to  arrange  their  ideas,  is  the  nar- 
rative which  goes  far  enough  back  at  the  beginnmg  to  avoid  all 
impediments  of  retrospection  in  its  course,  I  asked  Mrs.  Clements  to 
tell  me,  first,  what  had  happened  after  she  had  left  Limmeridge ; 
and  so,  by  watchful  questioning,  carried  her  on  from  f)oint  to  jDoint 
till  we  reached  the  period  of  Anne's  disappearance. 

The  substance  of  the  information  which  I  thus  obtained  was  as 
follows: 

On  leaving  the  farm  at  Todd's  Corner,  Mrs.  Clements  and  Anne 
had  traveled,  that  day,  as  far  as  Derby,  and  had  remained  there  a 
week,  ou  Anne's  account.     They  had  then  gone  on  to  London,  and 


406  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

had  lived  in  the  lodging  occupied  by  Mrs.  Clements,  at  that  time, 
lor  a  month  or  more,  when  circumstances  connected  with  the  house 
and  the  landlord  had  obliged  them  to  change  their  quarters.  Anne's 
terror  of  being  discovered  in  London  or  its  neighborhood,  whenever 
they  ventured  to  walk  out,  had  gradually  communicated  itself  to 
]Mrs.  Clements,  and  she  had  determined  on  removing  to  one  of  the 
most  out-of-the-way  places  in  England — to  the  town  of  Grimsby,  in 
Lincolnshire,  where  her  deceased  husband  had  passed  all  his  early 
life.  His  relatives  were  respectable  people  settled  in  the  town  ; 
they  had  always  treated  Mrs.  Clements  with  great  kindness;  and 
she  thought  it  impossible  to  do  better  than  go  there,  and  take  the 
advice  of  her  husband's  friends.  Anne  would  not  hear  of  returning 
to  her  mother  at  Welmingham,  because  she  had  been  removed  to 
the  Asylum  from  that  place,  and  because  Sir  Percival  would  be  cer- 
tain to  go  back  there  and  find  her  again.  There  was  serious  weight 
in  this  objection,  and  Mrs.  Clements  felt  that  it  was  not  to  be  easily 
removed. 

At  Grimsby  the  first  serious  symptoms  of  illness  had  shown  them- 
selves in  Anne.  They  appeared  soon  after  the  news  of  Lady  Glyde's 
marriage  had  been  made  public  in  the  newspapers,  and  had  reached 
her  through  that  medium. 

The  medical  man  who  was  sent  for  to  attend  the  sick  woman  dis- 
covered at  once  that  she  was  suffering  from  a  serious  affection  of 
the  heart.  The  illness  lasted  long,  left  her  very  weak,  and  returned, 
at  intervals,  though  with  mitigated  severity,  again  and  again.  They 
remained  at  Grimsby,  in  consequence,  during  the  first  half  of  the 
new  year,  and  there  they  might  probably  have  staid  much  longer, 
but  for  the  sudden  resolution  which  Anne  took,  at  this  time,  to  ven- 
ture back  to  Hampshire,  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  a  private  in- 
terview with  Lady  Glyde. 

Mrs.  Clements  did  all  in  her  power  to  oppose  the  execution  of 
this  hazardous  and  unaccountable  project.  No  explanation  of  her 
motives  was  offered  by  Anne,  except  that  she  believed  the  day  of 
her  death  was  not  fiir  off,  and  that  she  had  something  on  her  mind 
which  must  be  communicated  to  Lady  Glyde,  at  any  risk,  in  secret. 
Her  resolution  to  accomplish  this  purpose  was  so  firmly  settled  that 
she  declared  her  intention  of  going  to  Hampshire  by  herself,  if  Mrs. 
Clements  felt  any  unwillingness  to  go  with  her.  The  doctor,  on  be- 
ing consulted,  was  of  opinion  that  serious  opposition  to  her  wishes 
would,  in  all  probability,  produce  another  and  perhaps  a  fatal  fit  of 
illness ;  and  Mrs.  Clements,  under  this  advice,  yielded  to  necessity, 
and  once  more,  with  sad  forebodings  of  trouble  and  danger  to  come, 
allowed  Anne  Cathcrick  to  have  her  own  way. 

On  the  journey  from  London  to  Hampshire,  !Mrs.  Clements  dis- 
covered that  one  of  their  fellow -passengers  was  well  acquainted 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  407 

■VTith  the  neighborhood  of  Bh\ckwatcr,  and  cciihl  give  her  all  the 
information  she  needed  on  the  subject  of  localities.  In  this  way 
she  found  out  that  the  only  place  they  could  go  to  which  was  not 
dangerously  near  to  Sir  PercivaFs  residence  was  a  large  village 
called  Sandon.  The  distance  here  from  Blackwater  Park  was  be- 
tween three  and  four  miles  —  and  that  distance,  and  back  again, 
Anne  had  walked,  on  each  occasion  when  she  had  appeared  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  lake. 

For  the  few  days  during  which  they  were  at  Sandon  without  be- 
ing discovered,  they  had  lived  a  little  away  from  the  village,  in  the 
cottage  of  a  decent  widow  woman,  who  had  a  bedroom  to  let,  and 
whose  discreet  silence  Mrs.  Clements  had  done  her  best  to  secure,  for 
the  first  week  at  least.  She  had  also  tried  hard  to  induce  Anne  to 
be  content  with  writing  to  Lady  Glyde  in  the  first  instance.  But 
the  failure  of  the  warning  contained  in  the  anonymous  letter  sent  to 
Limmeridge  had  made  Anne  resolute  to  speak  this  time,  and  obsti- 
nate in  the  determination  to  go  on  her  errand  alone. 

Mrs.  Clements,  nevertheless,  followed  her  privately  on  each  occa- 
sion when  she  went  to  the  lake — without,  however,  venturing  near 
enough  to  the  boat-house  to  be  witness  of  what  took  place  there. 
When  Anne  returned  for  the  last  time  from  the  dangerous  neigh- 
borhood, the  fatigue  of  walking,  day  after  day,  distances  which 
were  far  too  great  for  her  strength,  added  to  the  exhausting  effect 
of  the  agitation  from  which  she  had  suffered,  j^roduced  the  result 
which  Mrs.  Clements  had  dreaded  all  along.  The  old  pain  over 
the  heart  and  the  other  symptoms  of  the  illness  at  Grimsby  return- 
ed, and  Anne  was  confined  to  her  bed  in  the  cottage. 

In  this  emergency  the  first  necessity,  as  Mrs.  Clements  knew  by  ex- 
perience, was  to  endeavor  to  quiet  Anne's  anxiety  of  mind ;  and,  fc. 
this  purpose,  the  good  woman  went  herself  the  next  day  to  the  lake, 
to  try  if  she  could  find  Lady  Glyde  (who  would  be  sure,  as  Anne  said, 
to  take  her  daily  walk  to  the  boat-house),  and  prevail  on  her  to  come 
back  privately  to  the  cottage  near  Sandon.  On  reaching  the  out- 
skirts of  the  plantation,  Mrs.  Clements  encountered,  not  Lady  Glyde, 
but  a  tall,  stout,  elderly  gentleman  with  a  book  in  his  hand — in  other 
words,  Count  Fosco. 

The  Count,  after  looking  at  her  very  attentively  for  a  moment, 
asked  if  she  expected  to  see  any  one  in  that  place ;  and  added,  be- 
fore she  could  reply,  that  he  was  waiting  there  with  a  message  from 
Lady  Glyde,  but  that  he  was  not  quite  certain  whether  the  person 
then  before  him  answered  the  description  of  the  person  with  whom 
he  was  desired  to  communicate. 

L^pon  this  Mrs.  Clements  at  once  confided  her  errand  to  him,  and 
entreated  that  he  would  help  to  allay  Anne's  anxiety  by  trusting  his 
message  to  her.     The  Count  most  readily  and  kindly  complied  with 


408  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

her  rcqiiost.  The  message,  he  said,  was  a  very  important  one.  Lady 
Glyde  entreated  Anne  and  lier  good  friend  to  return  immediately  to 
London,  as  she  felt  certain  that  Sir  Percival  would  discover  them  if 
they  remained  any  longer  in  the  neighborhood  of  Blackwater.  She 
was  herself  going  to  London  in  a  short  time,  and  if  Mrs,  Clements 
and  Anne  would  go  there  first,  and  would  let  her  know  what  their 
address  was,  they  should  hear  from  her  and  see  her  in  a  fortnight 
or  less.  The  Count  added  that  he  had  already  attemjjted  to  give  a 
friendly  warning  to  Anne  herself,  but  that  she  had  l)ecn  too  much 
startled,  by  seeing  that  lie  was  a  stranger,  to  let  him  approach  and 
speak  to  her. 

To  this  Mrs.  Clements  replied,  in  the  greatest  alarm  and  distres-s, 
that  she  asked  nothing  better  than  to  take  Anne  safely  to  London ; 
but  that  there  was  no  present  hope  of  removing  her  from  the  dan- 
gerous neighborhood,  as  she  lay  ill  in  her  bed  at  that  moment.  The 
Count  inquired  if  Mrs.  Clements  had  sent  for  medical  advice,  and 
hearing  that  she  had  hitherto  hesitated  to  do  so,  from  the  fear  of 
making  their  position  publicly  known  in  the  village,  informed  her 
that  he  was  liimself  a  medical  man,  and  that  he  would  go  back  with 
her  if  she  pleased,  and  see  what  could  be  done  for  Anne.  Mrs. 
Clements  (feeling  a  natural  confidence  in  the  Count,  as  a  person 
trusted  with  a  secret  message  from  Lady  Glyde)  gratefully  accepted 
the  ofler,  and  they  went  back  together  to  the  cottage. 

Anne  was  asleep  when  they  got  there.  The  Count  started  at  the 
sight  of  her  (e^ndently  from  astonishment  at  her  resemblance  to  Lady 
Glyde).  Poor  Mrs.  Clements  supposed  that  he  was  only  shocked  to 
see  how  ill  she  was.  He  would  not  allow  her  to  be  awakened ;  he 
was  contented  with  putting  questions  to  Mrs.  Clements  about  her 
sj-mptoms,  with  looking  at  her,  and  with  lightly  touching  her  pulse. 
Sandon  was  a  large  enough  place  to  have  a  grocer's  and  druggist's 
shop  in  it,  and  thither  the  Count  went  to  write  his  prescription  and 
to  get  the  medicine  made  up.  He  brought  it  back  himself,  and  told 
Mrs.  Clements  that  the  medicine  was  a  powerful  stimulant,  and  that 
it  wov.ld  certainly  give  Anne  strength  to  get  up  and  bear  the  fatigue 
of  a  journey  to  London  of  only  a  few  hours.  The  remedy  was  to  be 
administered  at  stated  times  on  that  day,  and  on  the  day  after.  On 
the  third  day  she  would  be  well  enough  to  travel;  and  he  arranged 
to  meet  Mrs.  Clements  at  the  Blackwater  station,  and  to  see  them  off 
by  the  midday  train.  If  they  did  not  appear,  he  would  assume  that 
Anne  was  worse,  and  would  proceed  at  once  to  the  cottage. 

As  events  turned  out,  no  such  emergency  as  this  occurred. 

The  medicine  had  an  extraordinary  effect  on  Anne,  and  the  good 
results  of  it  were  helped  by  the  assurance  Mrs.  Clements  could  now 
give  her  that  she  would  soon  see  Lady  Glyde  in  London.  At  the 
appointed  day  and  time  (when  they  had  not  been  quite  so  long  as 


THE    W0M:AX   IX    WHITE.  409 

a  week  in  Hampshire  altogether)  they  arrived  at  the  station.  The 
Count  was  waiting  there  for  them,  and  was  talking  to  an  elderly 
lady,  who  appeared  to  be  going  to  travel  by  the  train  to  London 
also.  He  most  kindly  assisted  them,  and  put  them  into  the  car- 
riage himself,  begging  Mrs.  Clements  not  to  forget  to  send  her  ad- 
dress to  Lady  Clyde.  The  elderly  lady  did  not  travel  in  the  same 
compartment,  and  they  did  not  notice  what  became  of  her  on 
reaching  the  London  terminus.  Mrs.  Clements  secured  respectable 
lodgings  in  a  «[niet  neighborhood,  and  then  wrote,  as  she  had  en- 
gaged to  do,  to  inform  Lady  Clyde  of  the  address. 

A  little  more  than  a  fortnight  passed,  and  no  answer  came. 

At  the  end  of  that  time,  a  lady  (the  same  elderly  lady  whom  they 
had  seen  at  the  station)  called  in  a  cab,  and  said  that  she  came  from 
Lady  Clyde,  who  was  then  at  a  hotel  in  London,  and  who  wished 
to  see  Mrs.  Clements  for  the  purpose  of  arranging  a  tiiture  interview 
with  Anne.  Mrs.  Clements  expressed  her  willingness  (Anne  being 
present  at  the  time  and  entreating  her  to  do  so)  to  forT\^ard  the  ob- 
ject in  view,  especially  as  she  was  not  required  to  be  away  from  the 
house  for  more  than  half  an  hour  at  the  most.  She  and  the  elderly 
lady  (clearly  Madame  Fosco)  then  left  in  the  cab.  The  lady  stop- 
ped the  cab,  after  it  had  driven  some  distance,  at  a  shop,  before  they 
got  to  the  hotel,  and  begged  Mrs.  Clements  to  wait  for  her  for  a  few 
minutes,  while  she  made  a  purchase  that  had  been  forgotten.  She 
never  appeared  again. 

After  waiting  some  time,  Mrs.  Clements  became  alarmed,  and  or- 
dered the  cab-man  to  drive  back  to  her  lodgings.  When  she  goC 
there,  after  an  absence  of  rather  more  than  half  an  hour,  Anne  was 
gone. 

The  only  information  to  be  obtained  from  the  people  of  the  house 
was  derived  fi-om  the  servant  who  waited  on  the  lodgers.  She  had 
opened  the  door  to  a  boy  from  the  street,  who  had  left  a  letter  for 
"  the  young  woman  who  lived  on  the  second  floor  "  (the  part  of  the 
house  which  Mrs.  Clements  occupied).  The  servant  had  delivered 
the  letter,  had  then  gone  down  stairs,  and,  five  minutes  afterward, 
had  observed  Anne  open  the  front  door  and  go  out,  dressed  in  her 
bonnet  and  shawl.  She  had  probably  taken  the  letter  with  her,  for 
it  was  not  to  be  found,  and  it  was  therefore  impossible  to  tell  what 
inducement  had  been  oflfered  to  make  her  leave  the  house.  It  m.ust 
have  been  a  strong  one,  for  she  would  never  stir  out  alone  in  Lon- 
don of  her  own  accord.  If  Mrs.  Clements  had  not  known  this  by 
experience,  nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  go  away  in  the  cab, 
even  for  so  short  a  time  as  half  an  hour  only. 

As  soon  as  she  could  collect  her  thoughts,  the  first  idea  that  nat 
urally  occurred  to  Mrs.  Clements  was  to  go  and  make  inquiries  at 
the  Asvlum,  to  which  she  dreaded  that  Anne  had  been  taken  back. 

18 


410  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVHITE. 

She  went  there  the  next  day,  having  been  informed  of  the  locality 
in  which  the  house  was  situated  by  Anne  herself.  The  answer  she 
received  (her  application  having,  in  all  probability,  been  made  a  day 
or  two  before  the  false  Anne  Catherick  had  really  been  consigned  to 
safe-keeping  in  the  Asylum)  was,  that  no  such  person  had  been 
brought  back  there.  She  had  then  written  to  Mrs.  Catherick,  at 
Welniingham,  to  know  if  she  had  seen  or  heard  any  thing  of  her 
daughter,  and  had  received  an  answer  in  the  negative.  After  that 
reply  had  reached  her,  she  was  at  the  end  of  her  resources,  and  per- 
fectly ignorant  where  else  to  inquire,  or  what  else  to  do.  From  that 
time  to  this  she  had  remained  in  total  ignorance  of  the  cause  of 
Anne's  disappearance,  and  of  the  end  of  Anne's  story. 

vn. 

Thus  far,  the  information  which  I  had  received  from  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents— though  it  established  facts  of  which  I  had  not  previously  been 
aware — was  of  a  preliminary  character  only. 

It  was  clear  that  the  series  of  deceptions  which  had  removed 
Anne  Catherick  to  London  and  separated  her  from  Mrs.  Clements 
had  been  accom^^lished  solely  by  Count  Fosco  and  the  Countess ; 
and  the  question  whether  any  part  of  the  conduct  of  husband  or 
wife  had  been  of  a  kind  to  place  either  of  them  within  reach  of  the 
law,  might  be  well  worthy  of  future  consideration.  But  the  purpose 
I  had  now  in  view  led  me  in  another  direction  than  this.  The  im- 
mediate object  of  my  visit  to  Mrs.  Clements  was  to  make  some  ap- 
proach, at  least,  to  the  discovery  of  Sir  PercivaFs  secret ;  and  she 
had  said  nothing  as  yet  which  advanced  me  on  my  way  to  that  im- 
portant end.  I  felt  the  necessity  of  trying  to  awaken  her  recollec- 
tions of  other  times,  persons,  and  events,  than  those  on  which  her 
memory  had  hitherto  ]>een  employed ;  and  when  I  next  spoke,  I 
spoke  with  that  object  indirectly  in  view. 

''  I  wish  I  could  be  of  any  help  to  you  in  this  sad  calamity,"  I 
said.  ''  All  I  can  do  is  to  feel  heartily  for  your  distress.  If  Anne 
had  been  your  own  child,  Mrs.  Clements,  you  could  have  shown  her 
no  truer  kindness — you  could  have  made  no  readier  sacrifices  for 
her  sake." 

"  There's  no  great  merit  in  that,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Clements,  simply. 
''  The  poor  thing  was  as  good  as  my  own  child  to  me.  I  nursed  her 
from  a  baby,  sir,  bringing  her  up  by  hand — and  a  hard  job  it  was  to 
rear  her.  It  wouldn't  go  to  my  heart  so  to  lose  her,  if  I  hadn't 
made  her  first  short-clothes,  and  taught  her  to  walk.  I  always  said 
she  was  sent  to  console  me  for  never  having  chick  or  child  of  my 
own.  And  now  she's  lost,  the  old  times  keep  coming  back  to  my 
mind  ;  and,  even  at  my  age,  I  can't  help  crying  about  her— I  can't 


THE    WOMAN   IN    AVHITE.  411 

I  waited  a  little  to  give  Mrs.  Clements  time  to  compose  herself. 
Was  the  light  that  I  had  been  looking  for  so  long,  glimmering  on 
me — Ikr  off,  as  yet — in  the  good  woman's  recollections  of  Anne's  ear- 
ly life  ? 

"  Did  you  know  Mrs.  Catherick  before  Anne  was  born  ?"  I  asked. 

"Not  very  long,  sir  —  not  above  four  months.  We  saw  a  great 
deal  of  each  other  in  that  time,  but  we  were  never  very  friendly  to- 
gether." 

Her  voice  was  steadier  as  she  made  that  reply.  Painful  as  many 
of  her  recollections  might  be,  I  observed  that  it  was,  unconsciously, 
a  relief  to  her  mind  to  revert  to  the  dimly-seen  troubles  of  the  j^ast, 
after  dwelling  so  long  on  the  vivid  sorrows  of  the  present. 

"  Were  you  and  Mrs.  Catherick  neighbors  V  I  inquired,  leading 
her  memory  on  as  encouragingly  as  I  could. 

"  Yes,  sir — neighbors  at  Old  Welmingham." 

"  Old  Welmingham  ?  There  are  two  i)laces  of  that  name,  then,  in 
Hampshire  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  there  used  to  be  in  those  days — better  than  three-and- 
twenty  years  ago.  They  built  a  new  town  about  two  miles  off,  con- 
venient to  the  river — and  Old  Welmingham,  which  was  never  much 
more  than  a  village,  got,  in  time,  to  be  deserted.  The  new  town  is 
the  place  they  call  Welmingham  now,  but  the  old  parish  church  is 
the  parish  church  still.  It  stands  by  itself,  with  the  houses  pulled 
down  or  gone  to  ruin,  all  round  it.  I've  lived  to  see  sad  changes. 
It  was  a  pleasant,  pretty  place  in  my  time." 

"Did  you  live  there  before  your  marriage,  Mrs.  Clements?" 

"  No,  sir — I'm  a  Norfolk  woman.  It  wasn't  the  place  my  husband 
belonged  to  either.  He  was  from  Grimsby,  as  I  told  you,  and  he 
served  his  apprenticeship  there.  But  having  friends  down  south, 
and  hearing  of  an  opening,  he  got  into  business  at  Southamj^ton. 
It  was  in  a  small  way,  but  he  made  enough  for  a  plain  man  to  retire 
on,  and  settled  at  Old  Welmingham.  I  went  there  with  him  when 
he  married  me.  We  were  neither  of  us  young,  but  we  lived  very 
happy  together — happier  than  our  neighbor,  Mr.  Catherick,  lived 
along  with  his  wife,  when  they  came  to  Old  Welmingham,  a  year  or 
two  afterward." 

"  Was  your  husband  acquainted  with  them  before  that  ?" 

"  With  Catherick,  sir — not  with  his  wife.  She  was  a  stranger  to 
both  of  us.  Some  gentleman  had  made  interest  for  Catherick,  and 
he  got  the  situation  of  clerk  at  Welmingham  church,  which  was  the 
reason  of  his  coming  to  settle  in  our  neighborhood.  He  brought 
his  newly-married  wife  along  with  him ;  and  we  heard  in  course  ot 
time  she  had  been  lady's-maid  in  a  fjimily  that  lived  at  Yarneck 
Hall,  near  Southampton.  Catherick  had  found  it  a  hard  m'atter  to 
get  her  to  marry  him,  in  consequence  of  her  holding  herself  uucom- 


412  THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE. 

monly  liigli.  He  had  asked  and  asked,  and  given  the  thing  up  at 
hist,  seeing  slie  was  so  contrary  about  it.  AVhen  lie  had  given  it  up 
she  turned  contrary,  just  the  otlier  way,  and  came  to  him  of  her  own 
accord,  witliout  rhyme  or  reason,  seemingly.  My  poor  husband  al- 
ways said  that  was  the  time  to  have  given  her  a  lesson.  But  Cath- 
crick  was  too  fond  of  her  to  do  any  thing  of  the  sort;  he  never 
cht'cked  Jier,  either  before  they  were  married  or  after.  He  was  a 
(juick  man  in  his  feelings,  letting  them  carry  him  a  deal  too  far, 
now  in  one  way,  and  now  in  another;  and  he  would  have  spoilecl 
a  l)etter  wife  than  Mrs.  Cathcrick,  if  a  better  had  married  him.  I 
don't  like  to  speak  ill  of  any  one,  sir,  but  she  was  a  heartless  wom- 
an, M'ith  a  terrible  will  of  her  own,  fond  of  foolish  admiration  and 
fine  clothes,  and  not  caring  to  show  so  much  as  decent  outward  re- 
spect to  Cathcrick,  kindly  as  he  always  treated  her.  My  husband 
said  he  thought  things  would  turn  out  badly,  when  they  first  came 
to  live  near  us ;  and  his  words  proved  true.  Before  they  had  been 
quite  four  months  in  our  neighborhood  there  was  a  dreadful  scan- 
dal and  a  miserable  break-up  in  their  household.  Both  cf  them 
were  in  fault — I  am  afraid  both  of  them  were  equally  in  fault." 

"  You  mean  both  husband  and  wife  ?" 

'-  Oh  no,  sir !  I  don't  mean  Cathcrick — he  was  only  to  be  pitied. 
I  meant  his  wife  and  the  person — " 

"  And  the  person  who  caused  the  scandal  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  A  gentleman  bom  and  brought  up,  who  ought  to  have 
set  a  better  example.  You  know  him,  sir — and  my  poor  dear  Anne 
knew  him  only  too  well." 

"  Sir  Percival  Clyde  ?" 

"  Yes ;  Sir  Percival  Clyde." 

My  heart  beat  fost — I  thought  I  had  my  hand  on  the  clue.  How 
little  I  knew  then  of  the  windings  of  the  labyrinth  which  were  still 
to  mislead  me  ! 

"  Did  Sir  Percival  live  in  your  neighborhood  at  that  time  ?"  I 
asked. 

"  No,  sir.  He  came  among  us  as  a  stranger.  His  father  had  died, 
not  long  before,  in  foreign  parts.  I  remember  he  was  in  mourning. 
He  put  up  at  the  little  inn  on  the  river  (they  have  pulled  it  down 
since  that  time),  where  gentlemen  used  to  go  to  fish.  He  wasn't 
much  noticed  when  he  first  came — it  was  a  common  thing  enough 
for  gentlemen  to  travel  from  all  parts  of  England  to  fish  in  our 
river." 

"Did  he  make  his  appearance  in  the  village  before  Anne  was 
lx)rn  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Anne  was  born  in  the  June  month  of  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  twenty-seven,  and  I  think  he  came  at  the  end  of  April  oi 
the  beginning  of  ]\[ay." 


THE    WOMAN   IX   WHITE.  413 

"  Came  as  a  stranger  to  all  of  yoi;  ?  A  stranger  to  Mrs.  Catberick, 
as  Tvell  as  to  the  rest  of  the  neighbors  ?'' 

"  So  we  thought  at  first,  sir.  But  when  the  scandal  broke  out  no- 
body believed  they  were  strangers.  I  remember  how  it  happened, 
as  well  as  if  it  was  yesterday.  Catherick  came  into  our  garden  one 
night,  and  woke  us  by  throwing  up  a  handful  of  gravel  from  the 
walk  at  our  window.  I  heard  him  beg  my  husband,  for  the  Lord's 
sake,  to  come  down  and  speak  to  him.  They  were  a  long  time  to- 
gether talking  in  the  porch.  When  my  husband  came  back  up 
stairs  he  was  all  of  a  tremble.  He  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed, 
and  he  says  to  me,  'Lizzie!  I  always  told  you  that  woman  was  a 
bad  one ;  I  always  said  she  would  end  ill — and  I'm  afraid,  in  my 
own  mind,  that  the  end  has  come  already.  Catherick  has  found  a 
lot  of  lace  handkerchiefs,  and  two  fine  rings,  and  a  new  gold  watch 
and  chain,  hid  away  in  his  wife's  drawer — things  that  nobody  but 
a  bom  lady  ought  ever  to  have — and  his  vnfe  won't  say  how  she 
came  by  them.'  'Does  he  think  she  stole  them  ?' says  I.  'No,' 
says  he,  '  stealing  would  be  bad  enough.  But  it's  worse  than  that 
— she's  had  no  chance  of  stealing  such  things  as  those,  and  she's 
not  a  woman  to  take  them  if  she  had.  They're  gifts,  Lizzie — 
there's  her  own  initials  engraved  inside  the  watch — and  Catherick 
has  seen  her  talking  privately  and  carrying  on  as  no  married  wom- 
an should,  with  that  gentleman  in  mourning — Sir  Percival  Glyde. 
Don't  you  say  any  thing  about  it — I've  quieted  Catherick  for  to- 
night. I've  told  him  to  keep  his  tongue  to  himself,  and  his  eyes 
and  his  ears  open,  and  to  wait  a  day  or  two,  till  he  can  be  quite 
certain.'  '  I  believe  you  are  both  of  you  wrong,'  says  I.  '  It's  not 
in  nature,  comfortable  and  respectable  as  she  is  here,  that  Mrs. 
Catherick  should  take  up  with  a  chance  stranger  like  Sir  Percival 
Glyde.'  '  Ay,  but  is  he  a  stranger  to  her  V  says  my  husband.  *  You 
forget  how  Catherick's  wife  came  to  marry  him.  She  went  to  him 
of  her  own  accord,  after  saying  No  over  and  over  again  when  he 
asked  her.  There  have  been  wicked  women  before  her  time,  Liz- 
zie, who  have  used  honest  men  who  loved  them  as  a  means  of  sav- 
ing their  characters,  and  I'm  sorely  airaid  this  Mrs.  Catherick  is  as 
wicked  as  the  worst  of  them.  We  shall  see,'  says  my  husband, 
'  we  shall  soon  see.'     And  only  two  days  afterward  we  did  see." 

Mrs.  Clements  waited  for  a  moment  before  she  went  on.  Even  in 
that  moment  I  began  to  doubt  whether  the  clue  that  I  thought  I 
had  found  was  really  leading  me  to  the  central  mystery  of  the  laby- 
rinth, after  all.  Was  this  common,  too  common,  story  of  a  man's 
treachery  and  a  woman's  fi-ailty  the  key  to  a  secret  which  had  been 
the  life-long  terror  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde  ? 

"  WeU,  sir,  Catherick  took  my  husband's  advice,  and  waited,"  Mrs. 
Clements  continued.     '-And,  as  I  told  you,  he  hadn't  long  to  wait. 


414  THE    AVOMAX    IX    WHITE. 

On  the  second  day,  he  found  liis  wife  and  Sir  Percival  whispering 
togetlier  quite  familiar,  close  under  the  vestry  of  the  church,  I  sup- 
pose they  thought  the  neighborhood  of  the  vestry  was  the  last  place 
in  the  world  where  any  body  would  think  of  looking  after  them- 
but,  however  that  may  be,  there  they  wTre.  Sir  Percival,  being 
seemingly  surprised  and  confounded,  defended  himself  in  such  a 
guilty  way  that  poor  Catherick  (whose  quick  temper  I  have  told 
you  of  already)  fell  into  a  kind  of  frenzy  at  his  own  disgrace,  and 
struck  Sir  Percival.  He  was  no  match  (and  I  am  sorry  to  say  it)  for 
the  man  who  had  wronged  him,  and  he  was  beaten  in  the  crudest 
manner  before  the  neighbors,  who  had  come  to  the  place  on  heanng 
the  disturbance,  could  run  in  to  part  them.  All  this  happened  to- 
ward, evening ;  and  before  nightfall,  M'hen  my  husband  went  to 
Catherick's  house,  he  was  gone,  nobody  knew  where.  No  living 
soul  in  the  village  ever  saw  him  again.  He  knew  too  well,  by  that 
time,  what  his  wife's  vile  reason  had  been  for  marrpng  him ;  and  he 
felt  his  misery  and  disgrace — especially  after  what  had  happened  to 
him  with  Sir  Percival — too  keenly.  The  clergyman  of  the  parish 
put  an  advertisement  in  the  paper,  begging  him  to  come  back,  and 
saying  that  he  should  not  lose  his  situation  or  his  friends.  But 
Catherick  had  too  much  pride  and  spirit,  as  some  people  said — too 
much  feeling,  as  I  think,  sir — to  face  his  neighbors  again,  and  try  to 
live  down  the  memory  of  his  disgrace.  My  husband  heard  from  him 
when  he  had  left  England,  and  heard  a  second  time,  when  he  was 
settled,  and  doing  well,  in  America.  He  is  alive  there  now,  as  far  as 
I  know ;  but  none  of  us  in  the  Old  Country — his  wicked  wife  least 
of  all — are  ever  likely  to  set  eyes  on  him  again." 

"  What  became  of  Sir  Percival  ?''  I  inquired.  "  Did  he  stay  in  the 
neighborhood  ?" 

"  Not  he,  sir.  The  place  was  too  hot  to  hold  him.  He  was  heard 
at  high  words  with  Mrs.  Catherick  the  same  night  when  the  scandal 
broke  out,  and  the  next  morning  he  took  himself  off."^ 

"  And  Mrs.  Catherick  ?  Surely  she  never  remained  in  the  village, 
among  the  people  who  knew  of  her  disgrace  ?" 

"  She  did,  sir.  She  was  hard  enough  and  heartless  enough  to  set 
the  oi)inions  of  all  her  neighbors  at  flat  defiance.  She  declared  to 
every  body,  from  the  clergyman  downward,  that  she  was  the  victim 
of  a  dreadful  mistake,  and  that  all  the  scandal-mongers  in  the  place 
should  not  drive  her  out  of  it  as  if  she  was  a  guilty  woman.  All 
through  my  time  she  lived  at  Old  Welmingham ;  and  after  my  time, 
when  the  new  town  was  building,  and  the  respectable  neighbors 
began  moving  to  it,  she  moved  too,  as  if  she  was  determined  to  live 
among  theiu  and  scandalize  them  to  the  very  last.  There  she  is 
now,  and  there  she  will  stop,  in  defiance  of  the  best  of  them,  to  her 
dying  day." 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  415 

"  But  how  has  she  lived,  through  all  these  years  ?"  I  asked.  "  Was 
her  husband  able  and  willing  to  help  her  ?" 

'•  Both  able  and  willing,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Clements.  ''  In  the  second 
letter  he  wrote  to  my  good  man,  he  said  she  had  borne  his  name 
and  lived  in  his  home,  and,  wicked  as  she  was,  she  must  not  starve 
like  a  beggar  in  the  street.  He  could  afford  to  make  her  some 
small  allowance,  and  she  might  draw  for  it  quarterly,  at  a  place  in 
London." 

"  Did  she  accept  the  allowance  ?" 

"  Not  a  farthing  of  it,  sir.  She  said  she  would  never  be  beholden 
to  Catherick  for  bit  or  drop,  if  she  lived  to  be  a  hundred.  And  she 
has  kept  her  word  ever  since.  When  my  poor  dear  husband  died, 
and  left  all  to  me,  Catherick's  letter  was  put  in  my  possession  with 
the  other  things — and  I  told  her  to  let  me  know  if  she  was  ever  in 
want.  '  ril  let  all  England  know  I'm  in  want,'  she  said,  '  before  I 
tell  Catherick,  or  any  friend  of  Catherick's,  Take  that  for  your 
answer;  and  give  it  to  }dm  for  an  answer,  if  he  ever  writes  again.'  " 

"  Do  you  suppose  that  she  had  money  of  her  own  ?" 

"  Very  little,  if  any,  sir.  It  was  said,  and  said  truly,  I  am  ati'aid, 
that  her  means  of  living  came  privately  from  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

After  that  last  reply,  I  waited  a  little,  to  reconsider  what  I  had 
heard.  If  I  unreservedly  accepted  the  story  so  far,  it  was  now  plain 
that  no  approach,  direct  or  indirect,  to  the  Secret  had  yet  been  re- 
vealed to  me,  and  that  the  pursuit  of  my  object  had  ended  again  in 
leaving  me  face  to  face  with  the  most  palpable  and  the  most  dis- 
heartening failure. 

But  there  was  one  point  in  the  narrative  which  made  me  doubt 
the  propriety  of  accepting  it  unreservedly,  and  which  suggested  the 
idea  of  something  hidden  below  the  surface. 

I  could  not  account  to  myself  for  the  circumstance  of  the  clerk's 
guilty  wife  voluntarily  living  out  all  her  after-existence  on  the  scene 
of  her  disgrace.  The  woman's  own  reported  statement  that  she  had 
taken  this  strange  course  as  a  practical  assertion  of  her  innocence, 
did  not  satisfy  me.  It  seemed,  to  my  mind,  more  natural  and  more 
probable  to  assume  that  she  was  not  so  completely  a  free  agent  in 
this  matter  as  she  had  herself  asserted.  In  that  case,  who  was  the 
likeliest  person  to  possess  the  power  of  compelling  her  to  remain  at 
Weimingham?  The  person,  unquestionably,  from  whom  she  de- 
rived the  means  of  living.  She  had  refused  assistance  from  her  hus- 
band, she  had  no  adequate  resources  of  her  own,  she  was  a  friendless, 
degraded  woman :  from  what  source  should  she  derive  help,  but 
from  the  source  at  which  report  pointed — Sir  Percival  Glyde  ? 

Reasoning  on  these  assumjDtions,  and  always  bearing  in  mind  the 
'  ^ne  certain  fact  to  guide  me,  that  Mrs.  Catherick  was  in  possession 


416  THE    "WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

of  the  Secret,  I  easily  understood  tliat  it  was  Sir  Percival's  interest 
to  keep  lier  at  Welmingham,  because  her  cliaracter  in  that  place  was 
certain  to  isolate  her  from  all  communication  with  female  neighbors, 
and  to  allow  her  no  opportunities  of  talking  incautiously,  in  mo- 
ments of  free  intercourse  with  inquisitive  bosom  friends.  But  what 
was  the  mystery  to  be  concealed  ?  Not  Sir  Percival's  infamous  con- 
nection with  Mrs.  Catherick's  disgrace — for  the  neighbors  were  the 
very  people  who  knew  of  it.  Not  the  suspicion  that  he  was  Anne's 
'father — for  Welmingham  was  the  place  in  which  that  suspicion 
must  inevitably  exist.  If  I  accej^ted  the  guilty  appearances  de- 
scribed to  me  as  unreservedly  as  others  had  accepted  them ;  if  I 
drew  from  them  the  same  superficial  conclusion  w^hich  Mr.  Cather- 
ick  and  all  his  neighbors  had  drawn — where  was  the  suggestion,  in 
all  that  I  had  heard,  of  a  dangerous  secret  between  Sir  Percival  and 
Mrs,  Catherick,  which  had  been  kept  hidden  from  that  time  to  this  ? 

And  yet,  in  those  stolen  meetings,  in  those  familiar  whisperings 
between  the  clerk's  wife  and  *•  the  gentleman  in  mourning,"  the  clue 
to  discovery  existed  beyond  a  doubt. 

Was  it  possible  that  appearances,  in  this  case,  had  pointed  one 
way,  while  the  truth  lay,  all  the  while  unsuspected,  in  another  di- 
rection ?  Could  Mrs.  Catherick's  assertion  that  she  was  the  -^  ictim 
of  a  dreadful  mistake,  by  any  possibility  be  true  ?  Or,  assuming  it 
to  be  false,  could  the  conclusion  which  associated  Sir  Percival  with 
her  guilt  have  been  founded  in  some  inconceivable  error  ?  Had  Sir 
Percival,  by  any  chance,  courted  the  suspicion  that  was  wrong,  for 
the  sake  of  diverting  from  himself  some  other  suspicion  that  was 
right  ?  Here,  if  I  could  find  it — here  was  the  approach  to  the  Se- 
cret, hidden  deep  under  the  surface  of  the  apparently  unpromising 
story  which  I  had  just  heard. 

My  next  questions  were  now  directed  to  the  one  object  of  ascer- 
taining whether  Mr.  Catherick  had,  or  had  not,  arrived  tnily  at  the 
conviction  of  his  wife's  misconduct.  The  answers  I  received  from 
Mrs.  Clements  left  me  in  no  doubt  whatever  on  that  point.  Mrs. 
Catherick  had,  on  the  clearest  e^^dence,  compromised  her  reputa- 
tion, while  a  single  woman,  with  some  person  unknown,  and  had 
married  to  save  her  character.  It  had  been  positively  ascertained, 
by  calculations  of  time  and  place  into  which  I  need  not  enter  par- 
ticularly, that  the  daughter  who  bore  her  husband's  name  was  not 
her  husband's  child. 

^  The  next  object  of  inquiry,  whether  it  was  equally  certain  that 
Sir  Percival  must  have  been  the  father  of  Anne,  was  beset  by  far 
greater  difficulties.  I  was  in  no  position  to  try  the  probabilities  on 
one  side  or  on  the  other,  in  this  instance,  by  any  better  test  than  the 
test  of  personal  resemblance. 


THE    AVOMAX   IN    WHITE.  417 

"  I  suppose  you  often  saw  Sir  Percival,  when  he  was  in  your  vil- 
IsLge  V  I  said. 

"  Yes,  sir — very  often,"  replied  Mrs.  Clements. 

"  Did  you  ever  observe  that  Anne  was  like  him  ?" 

"  She  was  not  at  all  like  him,  sir." 

"  Was  she  like  her  mother,  then  ?" 

"  Not  like  her  mother  either,  sir.  Mrs.  Catherick  was  dark,  and 
full  in  the  face." 

Not  like  her  mother,  and  not  like  her  (supposed)  father.  I  knew 
that  the  test  by  personal  resemblance  was  not  to  be  implicitly  trust- 
ed— but,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was  not  to  be  altogether  rejected  on 
that  account.  Was  it  possible  to  strengthen  the  evidence,  by  dis- 
covering any  conclusive  facts  in  relation  to  the  lives  of  Mrs.  Cather- 
ick and  Sir  Percival,  before  they  either  of  them  appeared  at  Old 
Welmingham  ?  When  I  asked  my  next  questions,  I  put  them  with 
this  view. 

"  When  Sir  Percival  first  arrived  in  your  neighborhood,"  I  said, 
"  did  you  hear  where  he  had  come  from  last  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  Some  said  from  Blackwater  Park,  and  some  said  from 
Scotland — but  nobody  knew." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Catherick  living  in  service  at  Yarneck  Hall,  immedi- 
ately before  her  marriage  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  had  she  been  long  in  her  place  ?" 

"  Three  or  four  years,  sir ;  I  am  not  quite  certain  which." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  name  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  Yarneck 
Hall  belonged  at  that  time  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.     His  name  was  Major  Donthorne," 

"  Did  Mr.  Catherick,  or  did  any  one  else  you  knew,  ever  hear  that 
Sir  Percival  was  a  friend  of  Major  Donthorne's,  or  ever  see  Sir  Per- 
cival in  the  neighborhood  of  Yarneck  Hall  ?" 

"  Catherick  never  did,  sir,  that  I  can  remember — nor  any  one  else, 
either,  that  I  know  of." 

I  noted  down  Major  Donthorae's  name  and  address,  on  the  chance 
that  he  might  still  be  alive,  and  that  it  might  be  useful,  at  some  fu- 
ture time,  to  apply  to  him.  Meanwhile  the  impression  on  my  mind 
was  now  decidedly  adverse  to  the  opinion  that  Sir  Percival  was 
Anne's  father,  and  decidedly  favorable  to  the  conclusion  that  the 
secret  of  his  stolen  interviews  with  Mrs.  Catherick  was  entirely  un- 
connected with  the  disgrace  which  the  woman  had  inflicted  on  her 
husband's  good  name.  I  could  think  of  no  further  inquiries  which 
I  might  make  to  strengthen  this  impression  —  I  could  only  en- 
courage Mrs.  Clements  to  speak  next  of  Anne's  early  days,  and 
watch  for  any  chance  suggestion  which  might  in  this  way  offer 
itaelf  to  me. 

18* 


418  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  I  have  not  heard  yet,"  I  said, "  how  the  poor  child,  bom  in  all 
this  sin  and  misery,  came  to  be  trusted,  Mrs.  Clements,  to  your  care." 
"  There  was  nobody  else,  sir,  to  take  the  little  helpless  creature 
in  hand,"  replied  Mrs.  Clements.  "  The  wicked  mother  seemed  to 
hate  it — as  if  the  poor  baby  was  in  fault ! — from  the  day  it  was 
born.  My  heart  was  heavy  for  the  child,  and  I  made  the  offer  to 
bring  it  up  as  tenderly  as  if  it  was  my  own." 

"  Did  Anne  remain  entirely  under  your  care  from  that  time  ?" 
"  Not  quite  entirely,  sir.  Mrs.  Catherick  had  her  w^hims  and  fan- 
cies about  it  at  times,  and  used  now  and  then  to  lay  claim  to  the 
child,  as  if  she  wanted  to  spite  me  for  bringing  it  up.  But  these 
fits  of  hers  never  lasted  for  long.  Poor  little  Anne  was  always  re- 
turned to  me,  and  was  always  glad  to  get  back,  though  she  led  but 
a  gloomy  life  in  my  house,  having  no  plaj^mates,  like  other  children, 
to  brighten  her  up.  Our  longest  separation  was  when  her  mother 
took  her  to  Limmeridge.  Just  at  that  time  I  lost  my  husband,  and 
I  felt  it  was  as  well,  in  that  miserable  atfliction,  that  Anne  should 
not  be  in  the  house.  She  was  between  ten  and  eleven  years  old 
then,  slow  at  her  lessons,  poor  soul,  and  not  so  cheerfal  as  other 
children — but  as  pretty  a  little  girl  to  look  at  as  you  would  wish  to 
see.  I  waited  at  home  till  her  mother  brought  her  back  ;  and  then 
I  made  the  offer  to  take  her  with  me  to  London — the  truth  being, 
sir,  that  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  stop  at  Old  Welmingham, 
after  my  husband's  death,  the  place  was  so  changed  and  so  dismal 
to  me." 

"And  did  Mrs.  Catherick  consent  to  your  proposal  ?" 
"  No,  sir.  She  came  back  from  the  North  harder  and  bitterer 
than  ever.  Folks  did  say  that  she  had  been  obliged  to  ask  Sir 
Percival's  leave  to  go,  to  begin  with,  and  that  she  only  went  to 
nurse  her  dying  sister  at  Limmeridge  because  the  poor  woman  was 
reported  to  have  saved  money — the  truth  being  that  she  hardly  left 
enough  to  bury  her.  These  things  may  have  soured  Mrs.  Catherick, 
likely  enough — but,  however  that  may  be,  she  wouldn't  hear  of  my 
taking  the  child  away.  She  seemed  to  like  distressing  us  both  by 
parting  us.  All  I  could  do  was  to  give  Anne  my  direction,  and  to 
tell  her  privately,  if  she  was  ever  in  trouble,  to  come  to  me.  But 
years  passed  before  she  was  free  to  come.  I  never  saw  her  again, 
poor  soul,  till  the  night  she  escaped  from  the  mad-house." 

"  You  know,  Mrs.  Clements,  why  Sir  Percival  Clyde  shut  her  up  ?" 
"  I  only  know  what  Anne  herself  told  me,  sir.  The  poor  thing 
used  to  ramble  and  wander  about  it,  sadly.  She  said  her  mother 
had  got  some  secret  of  Sir  Percival's  to  keep,  and  had  let  it  out  to 
her,  long  after  I  left  Hampshire — and  when  Sir  Percival  found  she 
knew  it,  he  shut  her  up.  But  she  never  could  say  what  it  was, 
when  I  asked  her.     All  she  could  tell  me  was  that  her  mother 


THE    WOMAN   IX    WHITE.  419 

might  be  the  ruin  and  destruction  of  Sir  Percival,  if  she  chose. 
Mrs.  Catherick  may  have  let  out  just  as  much  as  that,  and  no  more. 
I'm  next  to  certain  I  should  have  heard  the  whole  truth  from  Anne, 
if  she  had  really  known  it,  as  she  pretended  to  do — and  as  she  very 
likely  fancied  she  did.  poor  soul," 

This  idea  had  more  than  once  occurred  to  my  own  mind.  I  had 
already  told  Marian  that  I  doubted  whether  Laura  was  really  on 
the  point  of  making  any  important  discovery  when  she  and  Anne 
Catherick  were  disturbed  by  Count  Fosco  at  the  boat-house.  It 
was  perfectly  in  character  with  Anne's  mental  affliction  that  she 
should  assume  an  absolute  knowledge  of  the  Secret  on  no  better 
grounds  than  vague  suspicion,  derived  from  hints  which  her  moth- 
er had  incautiously  let  drop  in  her  presence.  Sir  Percival's  guilty 
distrust  would,  in  that  case,  infallibly  inspire  him  Avith  the  false 
idea  that  Anne  knew  all  from  her  mother,  just  as  it  had  afterward 
fixed  in  his  mind  the  equally  false  suspicion  that  his  wife  knew  all 
from  Anne. 

The  time  was  passing;  the  morning  was  wearing  away.  It  was 
doubtful,  if  I  staid  longer,  whether  I  should  hear  any  thing  more 
from  Mrs.  Clements  that  would  be  at  all  usefril  to  my  purpose.  I 
had  already  discovered  those  local  and  family  particulars  in  rela- 
tion to  Mrs.  Catherick  of  which  I  had  been  in  search ;  and  I  had 
arrived  at  certain  conclusions,  entirely  new  to  me,  which  might  im- 
mensely assist  in  directing  the  course  of  my  future  proceedings.  I 
rose  to  take  my  leave,  and  to  thank  Mrs.  Clements  for  the  friendly 
readiness  she  had  shown  in  affording  me  information. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  must  have  thought  me  very  inquisitive,"  I  said. 
"  I  have  troubled  you  with  more  questions  than  many  people  would 
have  cared  to  answer." 

"  You  are  heartily  welcome,  sir,  to  any  thing  I  can  tell  you,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Clements.  She  stopped,  and  looked  at  me  wistfully. 
"  But  I  do  wish,"  said  the  poor  woman,  "you  could  have  told  me  a 
little  more  about  Anne,  sir.  I  thought  I  saw  something  in  your  face, 
when  you  came  in,  which  looked  as  if  you  could.  You  can't  think 
how  hard  it  is,  not  even  to  know  whether  she  is  living  or  dead.  I 
could  bear  it  better  if  I  was  only  certain.  You  said  you  never  ex- 
pected we  should  see  her  alive  again.  Do  you  know,  sir — do  you 
know  for  truth — that  it  has  pleased  God  to  take  her  ?'' 

I  was  not  proof  against  this  appeal ;  it  would  have  been  unspeak- 
ably mean  and  cruel  of  me  if  I  had  resisted  it. 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  doubt  of  the  truth,"  I  answered,  gently : 
"  I  have  the  certainty,  in  my  own  mind,  that  her  troubles  in  this 
world  are  over." 

The  poor  woman  dropped  into  her  chair,  and  hid  her  face  from  me. 
"  Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  "  how  do  you  know  it  ?    Who  can  have  told  you  ?" 


420  TUE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE. 

"  No  one  has  told  me,  Mrs.  Clements.  But  I  have  reasons  for  feel- 
ing sure  of  it — reasons  which  I  promise  you  shall  know  as  soon  as  I 
can  safely  explain  them.  I  am  certain  she  was  not  neglected  in  her 
last  moments;  I  am  certain  the  heart-complaint,  from  which  she  suf- 
fered so  sadly,  was  the  true  cause  of  her  death.  You  shall  feel  as 
sure  of  this  as  I  do,  soon — you  shall  know,  before  long,  that  she  is 
buried  in  a  quiet  country  church-yard ;  in  a  pretty,  peaceful  j^lace, 
which  you  might  have  chosen  for  her  yourself" 

"  Dead  I"  said  Mrs.  Clements ;  "  dead  so  young — and  I  am  left  to 
hear  it !  I  made  her  first  short  frocks.  I  taught  her  to  walk.  The 
first  time  she  ever  said  Mother,  she  said  it  to  me — and  now  I  am  left, 
and  Anne  is  taken  !  Did  you  say,  sir,"  said  the  poor  woman,  remov- 
ing the  handkerchief  from  her  face,  and  looking  up  at  me  for  the 
first  time — ''  did  you  say  that  she  had  been  nicely  buried  ?  Was  it 
the  sort  of  funeral  she  might  have  had  if  she  had  really  been  my  own 
child  ?" 

I  assured  her  that  it  was.  She  seemed  to  take  an  inexplicable 
pride  in  my  answer — to  find  a  comfort  in  it,  which  no  other  and 
higher  considerations  could  afford.  ''It  would  have  broken  my 
heart,"  she  said,  simply,  '"if  Anne  had  not  been  nicely  buried — but, 
how  do  you  know^  it,  sir  ?  who  told  you  ?"  I  once  more  entreated 
her  to  wait  until  I  could  speak  to  her  unreservedly.  "  You  are  sure 
to  see  me  again,"  I  said ;  "  for  I  have  a  favor  to  ask,  when  you  are  a 
little  more  composed — perhaps  in  a  day  or  two." 

"Don't  keep  it  waiting,  sir,  on  my  account,"  said  Mrs.  Clements. 
"  Never  mind  my  crying,  if  I  can  be  of  use.  If  you  have  any  thing 
on  your  mind  to  say  to  me,  sir — please  to  say  it  now." 

"  I  only  wish  to  ask  you  one  last  question,"  I  said.  "  I  only  want 
to  know  Mrs.  Catherick's  address  at  Welmingham." 

My  request  so  startled  Mrs.  Clements,  that,  for  the  moment,  even 
the  tidings  of  Anne's  death  seemed  to  be  driven  from  her  mind. 
Her  tears  suddenly  ceased  to  flow,  and  she  sat  looking  at  me  in 
blank  amazement. 

"For  the  Lord's  sake,  sir!"  she  said,  "what  do  j'ou  Avant  with 
Mrs.  Catherick  ?" 

"I  want  this,  Mrs.  Clements,"  I  replied:  "I  want  to  know  the 
secret  of  those  private  meetings  of  hers  with  Sir  Percival  Glyde. 
There  is  something  more,  in  what  you  have  told  me  of  that  woman's 
past  conduct  and  of  that  man's  past  relations  with  her,  than  you,  or 
any  of  your  T-eighbors,  ever  suspected.  There  is  a  Secret  w^e  none 
of  us  know  ui"  between  those  two — and  I  am  going  to  Mrs.  Cather- 
ick, with  the  resolution  to  find  it  out.'' 

"  Think  twice  about  it,  sir !"  said  Mrs.  Clements,  rising,  in  het 
earnestness,  and  laying  her  hand  on  my  arm.  "  She's  an  aw  ful  worn- 
an — you  don't  know  her  as  I  do.     Think  twice  about  it." 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  421 

"  I  am  sure  your  warning  is  kindly  meant,  Mrs.  Clements.  But  I 
am  determined  to  see  the  woman,  whatever  comes  of  it." 

Mrs.  Clements  looked  me  anxiously  in  the  face. 

''  I  see  your  mind  is  made  up,  sir,"  she  said.  '*  I  will  give  you  the 
address." 

I  wrote  it  down  in  my  jDocket-book,  and  then  took  her  hand  to 
say  farewell. 

"  You  shall  hear  from  me  soon,"  I  said;  "■  you  shall  know  all  that 
I  have  promised  to  tell  you." 

Mrs.  Clements  sighed,  and  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"An  old  woman's  advice  is  sometimes  worth  taking,  sir,"  she  said. 
"  Think  twice  before  you  go  to  "VVelmingham." 

VIII. 

When  I  reached  home  again,  after  my  interview  with  Mrs.  Clem- 
ents, I  was  struck  by  the  appearance  of  a  change  in  Laura. 

The  unvar}-ing  gentleness  and  patience  which  long  misfortune 
had  tried  so  cruelly  and  had  never  conquered  yet,  seemed  now  to 
have  suddenly  failed  her.  Insensible  to  all  Marian  s  attempts  to 
soothe  and  amuse  her,  she  sat,  with  her  neglected  drawing  pushed 
away  on  the  table,  her  eyes  resolutely  cast  down,  her  fingers  twining 
and  untwining  themselves  restlessly  in  her  lap.  Marian  rose  when 
I  came  in,  with  a  silent  distress  in  her  face  ;  waited  for  a  moment,  to 
see  if  Laura  would  look  up  at  my  approach  ;  whispered  to  me,  "  Try 
if  you  can  rouse  her ;"  and  left  the  room. 

I  sat  down  in  the  vacant  chair,  gently  unclasped  the  poor,  worn, 
restless  fingers,  and  took  both  her  hands  in  mine. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Laura  ?  Tell  me,  my  darling — try 
and  tell  me  what  it  is." 

She  struggled  with  herself,  and  raised  her  eyes  to  mine,  "  I  can't 
feel  happy,"  she  said ;  "  I  can't  help  thinking — "  She  stopped, 
bent  forward  a  little,  and  laid  her  head  on  my  shoulder,  with  a  ter- 
rible mute  helplessness  that  struck  me  to  the  heart. 

"  Try  to  tell  me,"  I  repeated,  gently  ;  '^  try  to  tell  me  why  you  are 
not  happy." 

"  I  am  so  useless — I  am  such  a  burden  on  both  of  you,"  she  an- 
swered, with  a  weary,  hopeless  sigh.  ''  You  work  and  get  money, 
Walter ;  and  Marian  helps  you.  Why  is  there  nothing  I  can  do  ? 
You  will  end  in  liking  Marian  better  than  you  like  me — you  will, 
because  I  am  so  helpless  ?  Oh,  don't,  don't,  don't  treat  me  like  a 
child !" 

I  raised  her  head,  and  smoothed  away  the  tangled  hair  that  fell 
over  her  face,  and  kissed  her — my  poor,  faded  flower  I  my  lost,  af- 
flicted sister  !  "  You  shall  help  us,  Laura,"  I  said ;  "  you  shall  be- 
gin, my  darling,  to-day." 


422  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  feverish  eagerness,  with  a  breathless  in- 
terest, that  made  me  tremble  for  the  new  life  of  hope  which  I  had 
called  into  Ijcing  by  those  few  words, 

1  rose,  and  set  her  drawing  materials  in  order,  and  placed  them 
near  her  again. 

"  You  know  that  I  work  and  get  money  by  drawing,"  I  said. 
"  Now  you  have  taken  such  pains,  now  you  are  so  much  improved, 
you  shall  begin  to  work  and  get  money,  too.  Try  to  finish  this  lit- 
tle sketch  as  nicely  and  prettily  as  you  can.  When  it  is  done,  I 
will  take  it  away  with  me ;  and  the  same  person  will  buy  it  who 
buys  all  that  I  do.  You  shall  keep  your  own  earnings  in  your  own 
purse,  and  Marian  shall  come  to  you  to  help  us  as  often  as  she  comes 
to  me.  Think  how  useful  you  are  going  to  make  yourself  to  both 
of  us,  and  you  will  soon  be  as  happy,  Laura,  as  the  day  is  long." 

Her  face  grew  eager,  and  brightened  into  a  smile.  In  the  mo- 
ment while  it  lasted,  in  the  moment  when  she  again  took  up  the 
pencils  that  had  been  laid  aside,  she  almost  looked  like  the  Laura 
of  past  days. 

I  had  rightly  interpreted  the  first  signs  of  a  new  growth  and 
strength  in  her  mind,  unconsciously  expressing  themselves  in  the 
notice  she  had  taken  of  the  occupations  which  filled  her  sister's  life 
and  mine.  Marian  (when  I  told  her  what  had  passed)  saw,  as  I  saw, 
that  she  was  longing  to  assume  her  own  little  position  of  impor- 
tance, to  raise  herself  in  her  own  estimation  and  in  ours — and,  from 
that  day,  we  tenderly  helped  the  new  ambition  which  gave  promise 
of  the  hopeful,  happier  future,  that  might  now  not  be  far  ofi".  Her 
drawings,  as  she  finished  them,  or  tried  to  finish  them,  were  placed 
in  my  hands ;  Marian  took  them  from  me  and  hid  them  carefully ; 
and  I  set  aside  a  little  weekly  tribute  from  my  earnings,  to  be  offiered 
to  her  as  the  price  paid  by  strangers  for  the  poor,  faint,  valueless 
sketches,  of  vrhich  I  was  the  only  purchaser.  It  was  hard  sometimes 
to  maintain  our  innocent  deception,  when  she  proudly  brought  out 
her  purse  to  contribute  her  share  toward  the  expenses,  and  wonder- 
ed, with  serious  interest,  whether  I  or  she  had  earned  the  most  that 
week.  I  have  all  those  hidden  drawings  in  my  possession  still : 
they  are  my  treasures  beyond  price — the  dear  remembrances  that  I 
love  to  keep  alive — the  friends,  in  past  adversity,  that  my  heart  will 
never  part  from,  my  tenderness  never  forget. 

Am  I  trifling,  here,  with  the  necessities  of  my  task  ?  am  I  looking 
fonvard  to  the  happier  time  which  my  narrative  has  not  yet  reached  ? 
Yes.  Back  again — back  to  the  days  of  doubt  and  dread,  when  the 
spirit  within  mo  struggled  hard  for  its  life,  in  the  icy  stillness  of 
perpetual  suspense.  I  have  paused  and  rested  for  a  while  on  my 
forward  course.  It  is  not,  perhaps,  time  wasted,  if  the  friends  who 
read  these  pages  have  paused  and  rested  too. 


THE    WOMAN    IX   WHITE.  423 

I  took  the  first  opportunity  I  could  find  of  speaking  to  Marian  in 
private,  and  of  communicating  to  her  the  result  of  the  inquiries 
which  I  had  made  that  morning.  She  seemed  to  share  the  opinion 
on  the  subject  of  my  proposed  journey  to  Welmingham  which  Mrs. 
Clements  had  already  expressed  to  me. 

"  Surely,  Walter,"  she  said,  ''  you  hardly  know  enough  yet  to  give 
you  any  hope  of  claiming  Mrs.  Catherick's  confidence  ?  Is  it  wise 
to  proceed  to  these  extremities  before  you  have  really  exhausted  all 
safer  and  simpler  means  of  attaining  your  object  ?  When  you  told 
me  that  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count  were  the  only  two  people  in  ex- 
istence who  knew  the  exact  date  of  Laura's  journey,  you  forgot,  and 
I  forgot,  that  there  was  a  third  person  who  must  surely  know  it — I 
mean  Mrs.  Rubelle.  Would  it  not  be  far  easier,  and  far  less  danger- 
ous, to  insist  on  a  confession  from  her,  than  to  force  it  from  Sir  Per- 
cival ?" 

"  It  might  be  easier,"  I  replied ;  "  but  we  are  not  aware  of  the 
fall  extent  of  Mrs.  Rubelle's  connivance  and  interest  in  the  conspir- 
acy ;  and  we  are  therefore  not  certain  that  the  date  has  been  im- 
pressed on  her  mind,  as  it  has  been  assuredly  impressed  on  the 
minds  of  Sir  Percival  and  the  Count.  It  is  too  late,  now,  to  waste 
the  time  on  Mrs.  Rubelle,  which  may  be  all-important  to  the  discov- 
ery of  the  one  assailable  jDoint  in  Sir  Percival's  life.  Are  you  think- 
ing a  little  too  seriously,  Marian,  of  the  risk  I  may  run  in  returning 
to  Hampshire  ?  Are  you  beginning  to  doubt  whether  Sir  Percival 
Glyde  may  not,  in  the  end,  be  more  than  a  match  for  me  ?" 

"  He  will  not  be  more  than  your  match,"  she  replied,  decidedly, 
"  because  he  will  not  be  helped  in  resisting  you  by  the  impenetrable 
wickedness  of  the  Count." 

"  What  has  led  you  to  that  conclusion  ?"  I  asked,  in  some  sur- 
prise. 

"  My  own  knowledge  of  Sir  Percival's  obstinacy  and  impatience 
of  the  Count's  control,"  she  answered,  "I  believe  he  will  insist  on 
meeting  you  single-handed — just  as  he  insisted,  at  first,  on  acting  for 
himself  at  Blackwater  Park.  The  time  for  suspecting  the  Count's 
interference  will  be  the  time  when  you  have  Sir  Percival  at  your 
mercy.  His  own  interests  will  then  be  directly  threatened — and  he 
will  act,  Walter,  to  terrible  purpose  in  his  own  defense." 

"  We  may  deprive  him  of  his  weapons  beforehand,"  I  said. 
"  Some  of  the  particulars  I  have  heard  from  Mrs.  Clements  may  yet 
be  turned  to  account  against  him,  and  other  means  of  strengthen- 
ing the  case  may  be  at  our  disposal.  There  are  passages  in  Mrs. 
Michelson's  narrative  which  show  that  the  Count  found  it  necessa- 
ry to  place  himself  in  communication  with  Mr.  Fairlie,  and  there 
may  be  circumstances  which  compromise  him  in  that  proceeding. 
While  I  am  away,  Marian,  write  to  Mr.  Fairlie,  and  say  that  you 


424  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

■want  an  answer  describing  exactly  what  passed  bctw^een  the  Count 
and  himself,  and  informing  you  also  of  any  particulars  that  may 
have  come  to  his  knowledge,  at  the  same  time,  in  connection  with 
his  niece.  Tell  him  that  the  statement  you  request  will,  sooner  or 
later,  be  insisted  on,  if  he  shows  any  reluctance  to  furnish  you  witli 
it  of  his  own  accord." 

"  The  letter  sliall  be  written,  Walter.  But  are  you  really  deter- 
mined to  go  to  Welmingham  ?" 

"Absolutely  determined.  I  will  devote  the  next  two  days  to 
earning  what  we  want  for  the  week  to  come,  and  on  the  third  day 
I  go  to  Hampshire." 

When  the  third  day  came,  I  was  ready  for  my  journey. 

As  it  was  possible  that  I  might  be  absent  for  some  little  time,  I 
arranged  with  Marian  that  we  were  to  correspond  every  day,  of 
course  addressing  each  other  by  assumed  names,  for  caution's  sake. 
As  long  as  I  heard  from  her  regularly  I  should  assume  that  nothing 
was  wrong.  But  if  the  morning  came  and  brought  me  no  letter,  my 
return  to  London  would  take  place,  as  a  matter  of  course,  by  the  first 
train.  I  contrived  to  reconcile  Laura  to  my  departure  by  telling  her 
that  I  was  going  to  the  country  to  find  new  purchasers  for  her  draw- 
ings and  for  mine,  and  I  left  her  occupied  and  happy,  Marian  fol- 
lowed me  down  stairs  to  the  street  door. 

"  Remember  what  anxious  hearts  you  leave  here,"  she  whispered, 
as  we  stood  together  in  the  passage ;  "  remember  all  the  hopes  that 
hang  on  your  safe  return.  If  strange  things  happen  to  you  on  this 
journey ;  if  you  and  Sir  Percival  meet — " 

''What  makes  you  think  we  shall  meet  ?"  I  asked. 

''  I  don't  know — I  have  fears  and  fancies  that  I  can't  account  for. 
Laugh  at  them,  Walter,  if  you  like — but,  for  God's  sake,  keep  your 
temper  if  you  come  in  contact  with  that  man !" 

'•'■  Never  fear,  Marian  I     I  answer  for  my  self-control."' 

With  those  words  we  parted. 

I  w^alked  briskly  to  the  station.  There  was  a  glow  of  hope  in 
me ;  there  was  a  growing  conviction  in  my  mind  that  my  journey, 
this  time,  would  not  be  taken  in  vain.  It  was  a  fine,  clear,  cold 
morning ;  my  nerves  were  firmly  strung,  and  I  felt  all  the  strength 
of  my  resolution  stirring  in  me  vigorously  from  head  to  foot. 

As  I  crossed  the  railway  platform  and  looked  right  and  loft 
among  the  people  congregated  on  it,  to  search  for  any  faces  among 
them  that  I  knew,  the  doubt  occurred  to  me  whether  it  might  not 
have  been  to  my  advantage  if  I  had  adopted  a  disguise  before  set- 
ting out  for  Hampshire.  But  there  was  something  so  repellent  to 
me  in  the  idea — something  so  meanly  like  the  common  herd  of 
spies  and  informers  in  the  mere  act  of  adoj^ting  a  disguise — that  I 
dismissed  the  question  from  consideration  almost  as  soon  as  it  had 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  425 

risen  in  my  mind.  Even  as  a  mere  matter  of  expediency,  the  pro- 
ceeding was  doubtful  in  the  extreme.  If  I  tried  the  experiment  at 
home,  the  landlord  of  the  house  would,  sooner  or  later,  discover  me, 
and  would  have  his  suspicions  aroused  immediately.  If  I  tried  it 
away  from  home,  the  same  persons  might  see  me,  by  the  commonest 
accident,  with  the  disguise  and  without  it ;  and  I  should,  in  that 
way,  be  inviting  the  notice  and  distrust  which  it  was  my  most 
pressing  interest  to  avoid.  In  my  own  character  I  had  acted  thus 
far,  and  in  my  own  character  I  was  resolved  to  continue  to  the  end. 
The  train  left  me  at  Welmingham  early  in  the  afternoon. 

Is  there  any  wilderness  of  sand  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia,  is  there 
any  prospect  of  desolation  among  the  ruins  of  Palestine,  which  can 
rival  the  repelling  effect  on  the  eye  and  the  depressing  influence  on 
the  mind,  of  an  English  country  town  in  the  first  stage  of  its  exist- 
ence, and  in  the  transition  state  of  its  prosperity  ?  I  asked  myself 
that  question  as  I  passed  through  the  clean  desolation,  the  neat 
ugliness,  the  prim  torpor  of  the  streets  of  Welmingham.  And  the 
tradesmen  who  stared  after  mc  from  their  lonely  shops ;  the  trees 
that  drooped  helpless  in  their  arid  exile  of  unfinished  crescents 
and  squares ;  the  dead  house-carcasses  that  waited  in  vain  for  the 
vivifying  human  element  to  animate  them  with  the  breath  of  life ; 
every  creature  that  I  saw ;  every  object  that  I  passed — seemed  to 
answer  with  one  accord :  The  deserts  of  Arabia  are  innocent  of  our 
civilized  desolation ;  the  ruins  of  Palestine  are  incapable  of  our 
modern  gloom ! 

I  inquired  my  way  to  the  quarter  of  the  town  in  which  Mrs. 
Catherick  lived,  and  on  reaching  it  found  myself  in  a  square  of 
small  houses,  one  story  high.  There  was  a  bare  little  plot  of  grass 
in  the  middle,  protected  by  a  cheap  wire  fence.  An  elderly  nurse- 
maid and  two  children  were  standing  in  a  corner  of  the  inclosure, 
looking  at  a  lean  goat  tethered  to  the  grass.  Two  foot-passen- 
gers were  talking  together  on  one  side  of  the  pavement  before  the 
houses,  and  an  idle  little  boy  was  leading  an  idle  little  dog  along  by 
a  string  on  the  other.  I  heard  the  dull  tinkling  of  a  piano  at  a  dis- 
tance, accompanied  by  the  intermittent  knocking  of  a  hammer  near- 
er at  hand.  These  were  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  life  that  en- 
countered me  when  I  entered  the  square. 

I  walked  at  once  to  the  door  of  Number  Thirteen — the  number  of 
Mrs.  Catherick's  house — and  knocked,  without  waiting  to  consider 
beforehand  how  I  might  best  present  myself  when  I  got  in.  The 
first  necessity  was  to  see  Mrs.  Catherick.  I  could  then  judge,  from 
my  own  observation,  of  the  safest  and  easiest  manner  of  approaching 
the  object  of  my  visit. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  melancholy,  middle-aged  woman-serv- 


426  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

ant.  I  gave  licr  my  card,  and  asked  if  I  could  see  Mrs.  Catherick. 
The  card  was  taken  into  tlie  front  parlor,  and  the  servant  returned 
with  a  message  requesting  me  to  mention  what  my  business  was. 

"  Say,  if  you  please,  that  my  ])usiness  relates  to  Mrs.  Catherick's 
daughter,"  I  replied.  This  was  the  best  pretext  I  could  think  of, 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  to  account  for  my  visit. 

The  servant  again  retired  to  the  parlor,  again  returned,  and  this 
time  begged  me,  with  a  look  of  gloomy  amazement,  to  walk  in. 

I  entered  a  little  room  with  a  flaring  paper,  of  the  largest  pattern, 
on  the  walls.  Chairs,  tables,  chiflfonier,  and  sofa,  all  gleamed  with 
the  glutinous  brightness  of  cheap  upholstery.  On  the  largest  table, 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  stood  a  smart  Bible,  placed  exactly  in 
the  centre,  on  a  red  and  yellow  w^oolen  mat ;  and  at  the  side  of  the 
table  nearest  to  the  window,  with  a  little  knitting-basket  on  her  lap, 
and  a  wheezing,  blear-eyed  old  spaniel  crouched  at  her  feet,  there  sat 
an  elderly  woman,  wearing  a  black  net  cap  and  a  black  silk  gown, 
and  having  slate-colored  mittens  on  her  hands.  Her  iron-gray  hair 
hung  in  heavy  bands  on  either  side  of  her  face ;  her  dark  eyes 
looked  straight  forward,  with  a  hard,  defiant,  implacable  stare.  She 
had  fiill,  square  cheeks  ;  a  long,  firm  chin  ;  and  thick,  sensual,  color- 
less lips.  Her  figure  was  stout  and  sturdy,  and  her  manner  aggress- 
ively self-possessed.     This  was  Mrs.  Catherick. 

"  You  have  come  to  speak  to  me  about  my  daughter,"  she  said, 
before  I  could  utter  a  word  on  my  side.  "  Be  so  good  as  to  mention 
what  you  have  to  say." 

The  tone  of  her  voice  was  as  hard,  as  defiant,  as  implacable  as  the 
expression  of  her  eyes.  She  pointed  to  a  chair,  and  looked  me  all 
over  attentively,  from  head  to  foot,  as  I  sat  down  in  it.  I  saw  that 
my  only  chance  with  this  woman  was  to  speak  to  her  in  her  own  tone, 
and  to  meet  her,  at  the  outset  of  our  interview,  on  her  own  ground. 

"  You  are  aware,"  I  said,  ''  that  your  daughter  has  been  lost  ?" 

"  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  it." 

"  Have  you  felt  any  apprehension  that  the  misfortune  of  her  loss 
might  be  followed  by  the  misfortune  other  death  ?" 

"  Yes.     Have  you  come  here  to  tell  me  she  is  dead  ?" 

"  I  have." 

"  Why  ?" 

She  put  that  extraordinary  question  without  the  slightest  change 
in  her  voice,  her  face,  or  her  manner.  She  could  not  have  appear- 
ed more  perfectly  unconcerned  if  I  had  told  her  of  the  death  of  the 
goat  in  the  inclosure  outside. 

"  Why  ?"  I  repeated.  *'  Do  you  ask  why  I  come  here  to  tell  you 
of  your  daughter's  death  V 

"  Yes.  What  interest  have  you  in  me,  or  in  her  ?  How  do  you 
come  to  know  any  thing  about  my  daughter  ?" 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  427 

*'■  In  this  way  :  I  met  her  on  the  night  when  she  escaped  from  the 
As^'lum  ;  and  I  assisted  lier  in  reacliing  a  phice  of  safety." 

"  You  did  very  wrong," 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  her  mother  say  so." 

"  Her  mother  does  say  so.     How  do  you  know  she  is  dead  ?" 

"  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  say  how  I  know  it ;  but  I  do  know  it." 

"  Are  you  at  liberty  to  say  how  you  found  out  my  address  ?" 

*'  Certainly.     I  got  your  address  from  Mrs.  Clements." 

"  Mrs.  Clements  is  a  foolish  woman.    Did  she  tell  you  to  come  here  ?" 

"  She  did  not." 

"  Then,  I  ask  you  again,  why  did  you  come  ?" 

As  she  was  determined  to  have  her  answer,  I  gave  it  to  her  in  the 
plainest  possible  form. 

"I came,"  I  said,  ''because  I  thought  Anne  Catherick's  mother 
might  have  some  natural  interest  in  knowing  whether  she  was  alive 
or  dead." 

''  Just  so,"  said  Mrs.  Catherick,  with  additional  self-possession. 
"  Had  you  no  other  motive  ?" 

I  hesitated.  Tha  right  answer  to  that  question  was  not  easy  to 
find,  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"If  you  have  no  other  motive,"  she  went  on,  deliberately  taking 
off  her  slate-colored  mittens  and  rolling  them  up,  "  I  have  only  to 
thank  you  for  your  visit,  and  to  say  that  I  will  not  detain  you  here 
any  longer.  Your  information  would  be  mor(^  satisfactory  if  you 
w^ere  willing  to  explain  how  you  became  possessed  of  it.  However, 
it  justifies  me,  I  suppose,  in  going  into  mourning.  There  is  not 
much  alteration  necessary  in  my  dress,  as  you  sec.  When  I  have 
changed  my  mittens,  I  shall  be  all  in  black." 

She  searched  in  the  pocket  of  her  gown  ;  drew  out  a  pair  of 
black -lace  mittens;  put  them  on  with  tlie  stoniest  and  steadiest 
composure ;  and  then  quietly  crossed  her  hands  in  her  lap. 

"  I  wish  you  good-morning,"  she  said. 

The  cool  contempt  of  her  manner  irritated  me  into  directly  avow- 
ing that  the  purpose  of  my  visit  had  not  been  answered  yet. 

"  I  have  another  motive  in  coming  here,"  I  said. 
-    "Ah  !  I  thought  so,"  remarked  Mrs.  Catherick. 

"  Your  daughter's  death — " 

"  What  did  she  die  of?" 

"  Of  disease  of  the  heart." 

"  Yes.     Go  on." 

"Your  daughters  death  has  been  made  the  pretext  for  inflicting 
serious  injury  on  a  person  who  is  very  dear  to  me.  Two  men  have 
been  concerned,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  in  doing  that  wrong. 
One  of  them  is  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

"  Indeed !" 


428  THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE. 

I  looked  attentively  to  see  if  she  flinehed  at  the  sudden  mention 
of  that  name.  Not  a  muscle  of  her  stirred — the  hard,  defiant,  im- 
placaljle  stare  in  her  eyes  never  wavered  for  an  instant. 

"  You  may  wonder,"  I  went  on,  "  how  the  event  of  your  daughter's 
death  can  have  been  made  the  means  of  intiicting  injury  on  another 
person." 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Catherick  ;  "  I  don't  wonder  at  all.  This  appears 
to  be  your  affair.  You  are  interested  in  my  affairs.  I  am  not  inter- 
ested in  yours." 

"  You  may  ask,  then,"  I  persisted,  "  why  I  mention  the  matter  in 
your  presence." 

"  Yes ;  I  do  ask  that." 

"  I  mention  it  because  I  am  determined  to  bring  Sir  Percival 
Glyde  to  account  for  the  wickedness  he  has  committed." 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  your  determination  ?" 

"  You  shall  hear.  There  are  certain  events  in  Sir  PercivaFs  past 
life  which  it  is  necessary  to  my  purpose  to  be  fully  acquainted  with. 
You  know  them,  and  for  that  reason  I  come  to  youy 

"  What  events  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Events  that  occurred  at  Old  Welmingham,  when  your  husband 
was  Parish -clerk  at  that  place,  and  before  the  time  when  your 
daughter  was  bom." 

I  had  reached  the  woman  at  last,  through  the  barrier  of  impen- 
etrable reserve  thfit  she  had  tried  to  set  up  between  us.  I  saw  her 
temper  smouldering  in  her  eyes,  as  plainly  as  I  saw  her  hands  grow 
restless,  then  unclasp  themselves,  and  begin  mechanically  smoothing 
her  dress  over  her  knees. 

"What  do  you  know  of  those  events?"  she  asked. 

"All  that  Mrs.  Clements  could  tell  me,"  I  answered. 

There  was  a  momentary  flush  on  her  firm,  square  face,  a  moment- 
ary stillness  in  her  restless  hands,  which  seemed  to  betoken  a  com- 
ing outburst  of  anger  that  might  throw  her  off  her  guard.  But,  no 
— she  mastered  the  rising  irritation,  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  crossed 
her  arms  on  her  broad  bosom,  and,  with  a  smile  of  grim  sarcasm  on 
her  thick  lips,  looked  at  me  as  steadily  as  ever. 

"Ah  !  I  begin  to  understand  it  all  now,"  she  said,  her  tamed  and 
disciplined  anger  only  expressing  itself  in  the  elaborate  mockery  of 
her  tone  and  manner.  "You  have  got  a  grudge  of  your  otnti  against 
Sir  Percival  Glyde — and  I  must  help  you  to  wreak  it.  I  must  tell 
you  this,  that,  and  the  other,  about  Sir  Percival  and  myself,  must  I  ? 
Yes,  indeed !  You  have  been  prying  into  my  private  ai^iiirs.  You 
think  you  have  found  a  lost  woman  to  deal  with,  who  lives  here  on 
sufferance,  and  who  will  do  any  thing  you  ask,  for  fear  you  may  in- 
jure her  in  tho  opinions  of  the  towns-people.  I  see  through  you 
and  your  precious  speculation — I  do !  and  it  amuses  me.    Ha !  ha  I" 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  429 

She-  stopped  for  a  moment :  her  arms  tightened  over  her  bosom, 
and  she  h\ughed  to  licrself— a  hard,  harsh,  angry  hiugh. 

"  You  don't  know  how  I  have  lived  in  this  place,  and  what  I 
have  done  in  this  place,  Mr.  What's-yoiir-name,"  she  went  on.  ''  I'll 
tell  you,  before  I  ring  the  bell  and  have  you  shown  out.  I  came 
here  a  wronged  woman.  I  came  here  robbed  of  my  character,  and 
determined  to  claim  it  back.  I've  been  years  and  years  about  it — 
and  I  have  claimed  it  back.  I  have  matched  the  respectable  peo- 
ple fairly  and  openly,  on  their  own  ground.  If  they  say  any  tiling 
against  me  now,  they  must  say  it  in  secret :  they  can't  say  it,  they 
daren't  say  it,  openly.  I  stand  high  enough  in  this  town  to  be  out 
of  your  reach.  The  clergyman  bows  to  me.  Aha !  you  didn't  bar- 
gain for  that,  when  you  came  here.  Go  to  the  church,  and  inquire 
about  me — you  will  tind  Mrs.  Catherick  has  her  sitting,  like  the  rest 
of  them,  and  pays  the  rent  on  the  day  it's  due.  Go  to  the  town- 
hall.  There's  a  petition  lying  there ;  a  petition  of  the  respectable 
inhabitants  against  allowing  a  Circus  to  come  and  perform  here  and 
corrupt  our  morals :  yes  1  our  morals.  I  signed  that  petition  this 
morning.  Go  to  the  book-seller's  shop.  The  clergyman's  Wednes- 
day evening  Lectures  on  Justification  by  Faith  are  publishing  there 
by  subscription — I'm  down  on  the  list.  The  doctor's  wife  only  put 
a  shilling  in.  the  plate  at  our  last  charity  sermon — I  put  half  a  crown. 
Mr.  Church-warden  Soward  held  the  plate,  and  bowed  to  me.  Ten 
years  ago  he  told  Pigrum  the  chemist  I  ought  to  be  whipped  out 
of  the  town  at  the  cart's  tail.  Is  your  mother  alive  ?  Has  she  got 
a  better  Bible  on  her  table  than  I  have  got  on  mine  ?  Does  she 
stand  better  with  her  trades-people  than  I  do  with  mine  ?  Has  she 
always  lived  within  her  income  ?  I  have  always  lived  v.ithin  mine. 
— Ah  I  there  is  the  clergjTiian  coming  along  the  square.  Look,  Mr. 
What's-your-name — look,  if  you  please  I'' 

She  started  up.  with  the  activity  of  a  young  woman ;  went  to  the 
window  ;  waited  till  the  clergyman  passed ;  and  bowed  to  him  sol- 
emnly. The  clergyman  ceremoniously  raised  his  hat,  and  walked  on. 
Mrs.  Catherick  returned  to  her  chair,  and  looked  at  me  with  a  grim- 
mer sarcasm  than  ever. 

"  There  !"  she  said.  "  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  woman 
with  a  lost  character  ?     How  does  your  speculation  look  now  ?" 

The  singular  manner  in  which  she  had  chosen  to  assert  herself, 
the  extraordinary  practical  vindication  of  her  position  in  the  town 
which  she  had  just  offered,  had  so  peri^lexed  me  that  I  listened  to 
her  in  silent  surprise.  I  was  not  the  less  resolved,  however,  to  make 
another  effort  to  throw  her  off  her  guard.  If  the  woman's  fierce 
temper  once  got  beyond  her  control,  and  once  flamed  out  on  me, 
she  might  yet  say  the  words  which  would  put  the  clue  in  my  handa 

*'  How  does  your  speculation  look  now  ?"'  she  repeated. 


430  TUE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Exactly  as  it  looked  when  I  first  came  in,"  I  answered.  "  I  don't 
doubt  the  position  you  have  gained  in  the  town,  and  I  don't  wish  to 
assail  it  even  if  I  could.  I  came  here  because  Sir  Percival  Glyde  is, 
to  my  certain  knowledge,  your  enemy  as  well  as  mine.  If  I  have  a 
grudge  against  him,  you  have  a  grudge  against  him  too.  You  may 
deny  it,  if  you  like ;  you  may  distrust  me  as  much  as  you  please ; 
you  may  be  as  angry  as  you  will — but,  of  all  the  women  in  England, 
you,  if  you  have  any  sense  of  injury,  are  the  woman  who  ought  to 
lielp  me  to  crush  that  man." 

"  Crush  him  for  yourself,"  she  said ;  "  then  come  back  here,  and  see 
what  I  say  to  you." 

She  spoke  those  words  as  she  had  not  spoken  yet — quickly,  fierce- 
ly, vindictively.  I  had  stirred  in  its  lair  the  serpent-hatred  of  years 
— but  only  for  a  moment.  Like  a  lurking  reptile,  it  leaped  up  at 
me — as  she  eagerly  bent  forward  toward  the  place  in  which  I  was 
sitting.  Like  a  lurking  reptile,  it  dropped  out  of  sight  again — as 
she  instantly  resumed  her  former  position  in  the  chair. 

"  You  won't  trust  me  ?"  I  said. 

"  No." 

"  You  are  afraid  ?" 

"Do  I  look  as  if  I  was?" 

"  You  are  afraid  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde." 

"Ami?" 

Her  color  was  rising,  and  her  hands  were  at  work  again,  smooth- 
ing her  go-v\Ti.  I  pressed  the  point  further  and  further  home — I  went 
on,  without  allowing  her  a  moment  of  delay. 

"  Sir  Percival  has  a  high  position  in  the  world,"  I  said  ;  "  it  would 
be  no  w^onder  if  you  were  afraid  of  him.  Sir  Percival  is  a  powerful 
man — a  baronet — the  possessor  of  a  fine  estate — the  descendant  of  a 
great  fiimily — " 

She  amazed  me  beyond  exj^ression  by  suddenly  bursting  out  laugh- 
ing. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated,  in  tones  of  the  bitterest,  steadiest  contempt. 
1  "  A  baronet — the  possessor  of  a  fine  estate — the  descendant  of  a  great 
I  family.  Yes,  indeed !  A  great  family — especially  by  the  mother's 
'.  side." 

There  was  no  time  to  reflect  on  the  words  that  had  just  escaped 
her ;  there  was  only  time  to  feel  that  they  were  well  worth  thinking 
over  the  moment  I  left  the  house. 

"  I  am  not  here  to  dispute  with  you  about  family  questions,"  I  said. 
"  I  know  nothing  of  Sir  Percival's  mother — " 

"  And  you  know  as  little  of  Sir  Percival  himself,"  she  interposed, 
ahaqily. 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  be  too  sure  of  that,"  I  rejoined.  "  I  know 
some  things  about  him—  and  I  suspect  many  more." 


THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE.  431 

"  "What  do  you  suspect  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  don't  suspect.  I  don't  suspect  him  of  being 
A.nne's  father." 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  came  close  up  to  me  with  a  look  of 
fury. 

''  How  dare  you  talk  to  me  about  Anne's  father !  How  dare  you 
say  who  was  her  father,  or  who  wasn't  1"  she  broke  out,  her  face 
quivering,  her  voice  trembling  with  passion. 

"  The  secret  between  you  and  Sir  Percival  is  not  that  secret,"  I 
persisted.  "  The  mystery  which  darkens  Sir  Percival's  life  was  not 
bom  with  your  daughter's  birth,  and  has  not  died  with  your  daugh- 
ter's death." 

She  drew  back  a  step.  "  Go '.''  she  said,  and  pointed  sternly  to 
the  door. 

''  There  was  no  thought  of  the  child  in  your  heart  or  in  his,"  I 
went  on,  determined  to  press  her  back  to  her  last  defenses.  "  There 
was  no  bond  of  guilty  love  between  you  and  him,  when  you  held 
those  stolen  meetings — when  your  husband  found  you  whispering 
together  under  the  vestry  of  the  church." 

Her  pointing  hand  instantly  dropped  to  her  side,  and  the  deep 
flush  of  anger  faded  from  her  face  while  I  spoke.  I  saw  the  change 
pass  over  her;  I  saw  that  hard,  firm,  fearless,  self-possessed  woman 
quail  under  a  terror  which  her  utmost  resolution  was  not  strong 
enough  to  resist — when  I  said  those  five  last  words,  "  the  vestry  of 
the  church." 

"Por  a  minute,  or  more,  we  stood  looking  at  each  other  in  silence. 
I  spoke  first. 

''  Do  you  still  refuse  to  trust  me  C  I  asked. 

She  could  not  call  the  color  that  had  left  it  back  to  her  face,  but 
she  had  steadied  her  voice,  she  had  recovered  the  defiant  self-posses- 
sion of  her  manner,  when  she  answered  me. 

"  I  do  refuse,''  she  said. 

"  Do  you  still  tell  me  to  go  ?" 

"  Yes.     Go — and  never  come  back." 

I  walked  to  the  door,  waited  a  moment  before  I  opened  it,  and 
turned  round  to  look  at  her  again. 

"  I  may  have  news  to  bring  you  of  Sir  Percival  which  you  don't 
expect,"  I  said  ;  "  and  in  that  case,  I  shall  come  back." 

''There  is  no  news  of  Sir  Percival  that  I  don't  expect,  except — " 

She  stopped ;  her  pale  face  darkened ;  and  she  stole  back,  -with  a 
quiet,  stealthy,  cat-like  step,  to  her  chair. 

"  Except  the  news  of  his  death,''  she  said,  sitting  down  again,  with 
the  mockery  of  a  smile  just  hovering  on  her  cruel  lips,  and  the  fur- 
tive light  of  hatred  lurking  deep  in  her  steady  eyes. 

As  I  opened  the  door  of  the  room  to  go  out,  she  looked  round  at 


432  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

me  quickly.  The  cruel  smile  slowly  widened  her  lips — she  eyed  me 
with  a  strange,  stealthy  interest,  from  head  to  foot — an  unutteral^le 
expectation  showed  itself  wickedly  all  over  her  face.  Was  she  spec- 
ulating, in  the  secrecy  of  her  own  heart,  on  my  youth  and  strength, 
on  the  force  of  my  sense  of  injury  and  the  limits  of  my  self-control ; 
and  was  she  considering  the  lengths  to  which  they  might  carry  me, 
if  Sir  Percival  and  I  ever  chanced  to  meet  ?  The  bare  doubt  that  it 
might  be  so  drove  me  from  her  presence,  and  silenced  even  the  com- 
mon forms  of  farewell  on  my  lips.  Without  a  word  more,  on  my 
side  or  on  hers,  I  left  the  room. 

As  I  opened  the  outer  door,  I  saw  the  same  clergyman  who  had 
already  passed  the  house  once,  about  to  pass  it  again,  on  his  way 
back  through  the  square.  I  waited  on  the  door-step  to  let  him  go 
by,  and  looked  round,  as  I  did  so,  at  the  parlor  window, 

Mrs.  Catherick  had  heard  his  footstejDS  approaching,  in  the  silence 
of  that  lonely  place ;  and  she  was  on  her  feet  at  the  window  again, 
waiting  for  him.  Not  all  the  strength  of  all  the  terrible  passions  I 
had  roused  in  that  woman's  heart  could  loosen  her  desperate  hold 
on  the  one  fragment  of  social  consideration  w^hich  years  of  resolute 
effort  had  just  dragged  wdthin  her  grasp.  There  she  was  again,  not 
a  minute  after  I  had  left  her,  placed  purposely  in  a  position  which 
made  it  a  matter  of  common  courtesy  on  the  part  of  the  clergyman 
to  bow  to  her  for  a  second  time.  He  raised  his  hat  once  more.  I 
saw  the  hard,  ghastly  face  behind  the  window  soften,  and  light  up 
with  gratified  pride  ;  I  saw  the  head  with  the  grim  black  cap  bend 
ceremoniously  in  return.  The  clergyman  had  bowed  to  her — and  in 
my  presence — twice  in  one  day  ! 

IX. 

I  LEFT  the  house  feeling  that  Mrs,  Catherick  had  helped  me  a  step 
forward,  in  spite  of  herself.  Before  I  had  reached  the  turning  which 
led  out  of  the  square,  my  attention  was  suddenly  aroused  by  the 
sound  of  a  closing  door  behind  me. 

I  looked  round,  and  saw  an  undersized  man  in  black  on  the  door- 
step of  a  house  which,  as  well  as  I  could  judge,  stood  next  to  Mrs, 
Catherick's  place  of  abode — next  to  it,  on  the  side  nearest  to  m 
The  man  did  not  hesitate  a  moment  about  the  direction  he  sho 
take.  He  advanced  rapidly  toward  the  turning  at  which  I  ha 
stopped.  I  recognized  him  as  the  lawyer's  clerk  who  had  preceded 
me  in  my  visit  to  Blackwater  Park,  and  who  had  tried  to  pick  a 
quarrel  with  me,  when  I  asked  him  if  I  could  see  the  house. 

I  waited  where  I  was,  to  ascertain  whether  his  object  was  to  come 
to  close  quarters  and  speak,  on  this  occasion.  To  my  surprise,  he 
passed  on  rapidly,  without  saying  a  word,  without  even  looking  up 
in  my  face  as  he  went  by.     This  was  such  a  complete  inversion  of 


THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE.  433 

tlic  course  of  proceeding  which  I  had  every  reason  to  expect  on  his 
part,  that  my  curiosity,  or  rather  my  suspicion,  was  aroused,  and  I 
determined,  on  my  side,  to  keep  him  cautiously  in  view,  and  to  dis- 
cover what  the  business  might  be  on  which  he  was  now  employed. 
Without  caring  whether  he  saw  me  or  not,  I  walked  after  him.  He 
never  looked  back,  and  he  led  me  straight  through  the  streets  to  the 
railway  station. 

The  train  was  on  the  point  of  starting,  and  two  or  three  passen- 
gers who  were  late  were  clustering  round  the  small  opening  through 
which  the  tickets  were  issued.  I  joined  them,  and  distinctly  heard 
the  lawyer's  clerk  demand  a  ticket  for  the  Blackwater  station.  I 
satisfied  myself  that  he  had  actually  left  by  the  train,  before  I  can  e 
away. 

There  was  only  one  inter|oretation  that  I  could  place  on  what  I 
had  just  seen  and  heard.  I  had  unquestionably  observed  the  man 
leaving  a  house  which  closely  adjoined  Mrs.  Catherick's  residence. 
He  had  been  probably  placed  there,  by  Sir  Percival's  directions,  as  a 
lodger,  in  anticipation  of  my  inquiries  leading  me,  sooner  or  later, 
to  communicate  with  Mrs.  Catherick.  He  had  doubtless  seen  me  go 
in  and  come  out,  and  he  had  hurried  away  by  the  first  train  to  make 
his  report  at  Blackwater  Park — to  which  place  Sir  Percival  would 
naturally  betake  himself  (knowing  what  he  evidently  knew  of  my 
movements),  in  order  to  be  ready  on  the  spot,  if  I  returned  to  Hamp- 
shire. Before  many  days  were  over,  there  seemed  every  likelihood, 
now,  that  he  and  I  might  meet. 

Whatever  result  events  might  be  destined  to  produce,  I  resolved 
to  pursue  my  own  course,  straight  to  the  end  in  view,  without  stop- 
ping or  turning  aside,  for  Sir  Percival  or  for  any  one.  The  great 
responsibility  which  weighed  on  me  heavily  in  London — the  respon- 
sibility of  so  guiding  my  slightest  actions  as  to  prevent  them  from 
leading  accidentally  to  the  discovery  of  Laura's  place  of  refuge — 
was  removed,  now  that  I  was  in  Hampshire.  I  could  go  and  come 
as  I  pleased,  at  Welmingham  ;  and  if  I  chanced  to  fail  in  observing 
any  necessary  precautions,  the  immediate  results,  at  least,  would  af- 
fect no  one  but  myself. 

When  I  left  the  station,  the  winter  evening  was  beginning  to  close 
in.  There  was  little  hope  of  continuing  my  inquiries  after  dark  to 
any  useful  purpose,  in  a  neighborhood  that  was  strange  to  me.  Ac- 
cordingly, I  made  my  way  to  the  nearest  hotel,  and  ordered  my  din- 
ner and  my  bed.  This  done,  I  wrote  to  Marian,  to  tell  her  that  I 
was  safe  and  well,  and  that  I  had  fair  prospects  of  success,  I  had 
directed  her,  on  leading  home,  to  address  the  first  letter  she  wrote  to 
me  (the  letter  I  expected  to  receive  the  next  morning)  to  "  The 
Post-office,  Welmingham ;''  and  I  now  begged  her  to  send  her  sec- 
ond day's  letter  to  the  same  address,     I  could  easily  receive  it,  l>y 

10 


434  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

writini:?  to  the  postmaster,  if  I  happened  to  be  away  from  tlic  town 
wlieu  it  arrived. 

The  coffee-room  of  the  hotel,  as  it  grew  late  in  the  eveninj^,  be- 
came a  perfect  solitude.  I  was  left  to  reflect  on  what  I  had  accom- 
plished tliat  afternoon  as  uninterruptedly  as  if  the  house  had  been 
my  own.  Before  I  retired  to  rest,  I  liad  attentively  thought  over  my 
extraordinary  interview  with  Mrs.  Catherick,  from  beginning  to  end ; 
and  had  verified,  at  my  leisure,  the  conclusions  which  I  had  hastily 
drawn  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  day. 

The  vestry  of  Old  Welmingham  church  was  the  starting-point 
from  which  my  mind  slowly  worked  its  way  back  through  all  that 
I  had  heard  Mrs.  Catherick  say,  and  through  all  I  had  seen  Mrs. 
Catherick  do. 

At  the  time  when  the  neighborhood  of  the  vestry  was  first  re- 
ferred to  in  my  presence  by  Mrs.  Clements,  I  had  thought  it  the 
strangest  and  most  unaccountable  of  all  places  for  Sir  Percival  to 
select  for  a  clandestine  meeting  with  the  clerk's  wife.  Influenced 
by  this  impression,  and  by  no  other,  I  had  mentioned  "  the  vestry  of 
the  church,''  before  Mrs.  Catherick,  on  pure  speculation — it  repre- 
sented one  of  the  minor  peculiarities  of  the  story,  which  occurred  to 
me  while  I  was  speaking.  I  was  prepared  for  her  answering  me 
confusedly,  or  angrily ;  but  the  blank  terror  that  seized  her  when  I 
said  the  words  took  me  completely  by  surprise.  I  had,  long  before, 
associated  Sir  Percival's  Secret  with  the  concealment  of  a  serious 
crime,  which  Mrs.  Catherick  knew  of — but  I  had  gone  no  further 
than  this.  Now,  the  woman's  paroxysm  of  terror  associated  the 
crime,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  with  the  vestry,  and  convinced 
me  that  she  had  been  more  than  the  mere  witness  of  it — she  was 
also  the  accomplice,  beyond  a  doubt. 

What  had  been  the  uature  of  the  crime  ?  Surely  there  was  a  con- 
temptible side  to  it,  as  well  as  a  dangerous  side,  or  3Irs.  Catherick 
would  not  have  repeated  my  own  w^ords,  referring  to  Sir  PercivaUs 
rank  and  power,  with  such  marked  disdain  as  she  had  certainly  dis- 
played. It  was  a  contemptible  crime,  then,  and  a  dangerous  crime ; 
and  she  had  shared  in  it,  and  it  was  associated  with  the  vestry  of  the 
church. 

The  next  consideration  to  be  disposed  of  led  me  a  step  further 
from  this  point. 

Mrs.  Cathorick's  undisguised  contempt  for  Sir  Percival  plainly  ex- 
tended to  his  mother  as  well.  She  had  referred,  with  the  bitterest 
sarcasm,  to  the  great  family  he  had  descended  from — "  especially  by 
the  mother's  side.''  What  did  this  mean  ?  There  appeared  to  be 
only  two  explanations  of  it.  Either  his  mother's  birth  had  been 
low  ?  or  his  mother's  reputation  was  damaged  by  some  hidden  flaw 
with  which  Mrs.  Catherick  and  Sir  Percival  were  both  privately  ac- 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITE.  430 

quainted?  I  could  only  put  the  first  explanation  to  the  test  by 
looking  at  the  register  of  her  marriage,  and  so  ascertaining  her 
maiden  name  and  her  parentage,  as  a  preliminary  to  further  in- 
quiries. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  the  second  case  supposed  were  the  true  one, 
'^^hat  had  been  the  flaw  in  her  reputation  ?  Remembering  the  ac- 
count which  Marian  had  given  me  of  Sir  Percival's  father  and  moth- 
er, and  of  the  suspiciously  unsocial,  secluded  life  they  had  both  led, 
I  now  asked  myself  whether  it  might  not  be  possible  that  his  mother 
had  never  been  married  at  all.  Here,  again,  the  register  might,  by 
offering  written  evidence  of  the  marriage,  prove  to  me,  at  any  rate, 
that  this  doubt  had  no  foundation  in  truth.  But  where  was  the 
register  to  be  found  ?  At  this  point  I  took  up  the  conclusions  which 
I  had  previously  formed ;  and  the  same  mental  process  which  had 
^discovered  the  locality  of  the  concealed  crime,  now  lodged  the  reg- 
ister, also,  in  the  vestry  of  Old  "Welmingham  church. 

These  were  the  results  of  my  interview  with  Mrs.  Catherick — these 
were  the  various  considerations,  all  steadily  converging  to  one  point, 
which  decided  the  course  of  my  proceedings  on  the  next  day. 

The  morning  was  cloudy  and  lowering,  but  no  rain  fell.  I  left 
my  bag  at  the  hotel,  to  wait  there  till  I  called  for  it,  and,  after  in- 
quiring the  way,  set  forth  on  foot  for  Old  Welmingham  church. 

It  was  a  walk  of  rather  more  than  two  miles,  the  ground  rising 
slowly  all  the  way. 

On  the  highest  point  stood  the  church — an  ancient,  weather-beat- 
en building,  with  heavy  buttresses  at  its  sides,  and  a  clumsy  square 
tower  in  front.  The  vestry,  at  the  back,  was  built  out  from  the 
church,  and  seemed  to  be  of  the  same  age.  Eound  the  building,  at 
intervals,  appeared  the  remains  of  the  village  which  Mrs.  Clements 
had  described  to  me  as  her  husband's  place  of  abode  in  former  years, 
and  which  the  principal  inhabitants  had  long  since  deserted  for  the 
new  town.  Some  of  the  empty  houses  had  been  dismantled  to  their 
outer  walls ;  some  had  been  left  to  decay  with  time  ;  and  some  were 
still  inhabited  by  persons  evidently  of  the  poorest  class.  It  was  a 
dreary  scene — and  yet,  in  the  worst  aspect  of  its  ruin,  not  so  dreary 
as  the  modern  town  that  I  had  just  left.  Here  there  was  the  brown, 
breezy  sweep  of  surrounding  fields  for  the  eye  to  repose  on ;  here 
the  trees,  leafless  as  they  were,  still  varied  the  monotony  of  the  pros- 
pect, and  helped  the  mind  to  look  forward  to  summer-time  and  shade. 

As  I  moved  away  from  the  back  of  the  church,  and  passed  some 
of  the  dismantled  cottages  in  search  of  a  person  who  might  direct 
me  to  the  clerk,  I  saw  two  men  saunter  out  after  me,  from  behind  a 
wall.  The  taller  of  the  two — a  stout,  muscular  man,  in  the  dress  of 
a  gamekeeper — was  a  stranger  to  me.     The  other  was  one  of  the 


436  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

men  who  had  followed  mc  in  London,  on  the  day  when  I  left  Mr. 
Kyrle's  office.  I  had  taken  particular  notice  of  hhn  at  the  time; 
and  I  felt  sure  that  I  was  not  mistaken  in  identifying  the  fellow  on 
this  occasion. 

Neither  he  nor  his  companion  attempted  to  speak  to  me,  and  both 
kept  themselves  at  a  respectful  distance ;  but  the  motive  of  their 
presence  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  church  was  plainly  apparent. 
It  was  exactly  as  I  had  supposed — Sir  Percival  w^as  already  prepared 
for  me.  My  visit  to  Mrs.  Catherick  had  been  reported  to  him  the 
evening  before  ;  and  those  two  men  had  been  placed  on  the  lookout, 
near  the  church,  in  anticipation  of  my  appearance  at  Old  Welming- 
ham.  If  I  had  wanted  any  further  proof  that  my  investigations  had 
taken  the  right  direction  at  last,  the  plan  now  adopted  for  watching 
me  would  have  supplied  it. 

I  walked  on,  away  from  the  church,  till  I  reached  one  of  the  in-^ 
habited  houses,  with  a  patch  of  kitchen  garden  attached  to  it,  on 
which  a  laborer  was  at  work.  He  directed  me  to  the  clerk's  abode 
— a  cottage,  at  some  little  distance  off,  standing  by  itself,  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  forsaken  village.  The  clerk  was  indoors,  and  was 
just  putting  on  his  great-coat.  He  was  a  cheerful,  familiar,  loudly- 
talkative  old  man,  with  a  very  poor  opinion  (as  I  soon  discovered) 
of  the  place  in  M'hich  he  lived,  and  a  happy  sense  of  superiority  to 
his  neighbors  in  virtue  of  the  great  personal  distinction  of  having 
once  been  in  London. 

*•*  It's  well  j'ou  came  so  early,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  when  I  had 
mentioned  the  object  of  my  visit.  ''  I  should  have  been  away  in  ten 
minutes  more.  Parish  business,  sir — and  a  goodish  long  trot  before 
it's  all  done,  for  a  man  at  my  age.  But,  bless  you,  I'm  strong  on  my 
legs  still  I  As  long  as  a  man  don't  give  at  his  legs,  there's  a  deal  of 
work  left  in  him.     Don't  you  think  so  yourself,  sir  ?" 

He  took  his  keys  down  while  he  was  talking,  from  a  hook  behind 
the  fire-place,  and  locked  his  cottage  door  behind  us. 

'•  Xobody  at  home  to  keep  house  for  me,"  said  the  clerk,  with  a 
cheerful  sense  of  perfect  freedom  from  all  family  incumbrances, 
''  My  wife's  in  the  church-yard  there,  and  my  children  are  all  mar- 
ried. A  wretched  place  this,  isn't  it,  sir  ?  But  the  parish  is  a  large 
one — every  man  couldn't  get  through  the  business  as  I  do.  It's 
learning  does  it ;  and  I've  had  my  share,  and  a  little  more.  I  can 
talk  the  Queen's  English  (God  bless  the  Queen  !) — and  that's  more 
than  most  of  the  people  about  here  can  do.  You're  from  London,  I 
suppose,  sir  ?  I've  been  in  London,  a  matter  of  five-and-twenty  year 
ago.     What's  the  news  there  now,  if  you  please  ?'' 

Chattering  on  in  this  way,  he  led  me  back  to  the  vestry.  I  looked 
about,  to  see  if  the  two  spies  were  still  in  sight.  They  were  not 
visible  anj'where.     Alter  having  discovered  my  application  to  the 


THE    WOMAX   IX    WHITE.  437 

clerk,  they  had  probably  concealed  themselves  where  they  could 
watch  my  next  proceedings  in  perfect  freedom. 

The  vestry  door  was  of  stout  old  oak,  studded  with  strong  nails  ; 
and  the  clerk  put  his  large,  heavy  key  into  the  lock  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  knew  that  he  had  a  difficulty  to  encounter,  and  who  was 
not  quite  certain  of  creditably  conquering  it. 

"  I'm  obliged  to  bring  you  this  way,  sir,"  he  said,  "  because  the 
door  from  the  vestry  to  the  church  is  bolted  on  the  vestry  side. 
We  might  have  got  in  through  the  church,  otherwise.  This  is  a 
perverse  lock,  if  ever  there  was  one  yet.  It's  big  enough  for  a  pris- 
on-door ;  it's  been  hampered  over  and  over  again ;  and  it  ought  to 
be  changed  for  a  new  one.  I've  mentioned  that  to  the  church- 
warden fifty  times  over  at  least ;  he's  always  saying  '  I'll  see  about 
it ' — and  he  never  does  see.  Ah,  it's  a  sort  of  lost  corner,  this  place. 
Not  like  London — is  it,  sir  ?  Bless  you,  we  arc  all  asleep  here  !  We 
don't  march  with  the  times." 

After  some  twisting  and  turning  of  the  key,  the  heavy  lock 
yielded,  and  he  opened  the  door. 

The  vestry  was  larger  than  I  should  have  supposed  it  to  be, 
judging  from  the  outside  only.  It  was  a  dim,  moldy,  melancholy 
old  room,  with  a  low,  raftered  ceiling.  Round  two  sides  of  it,  the 
sides  nearest  to  the  interior  of  the  church,  ran  heavy  wooden 
presses,  worm-eaten  and  gaping  with  age.  Hooked  to  the  inner 
corner  of  one  of  these  presses  hung  several  sui-plices,  all  bulging 
out  at  their  lower  ends  in  an  irreverent-looking  bundle  of  limp 
drapery.  Below  the  surplices,  on  the  floor,  stood  three  packing- 
cases,  with  the  lids  half  off,  half  on,  and  the  straw  profusely  burst- 
ing out  of  their  cracks  and  crevices  in  every  direction.  Behind 
them,  in  a  corner,  was  a  litter  of  dusty  papers ;  some  large  and 
rolled  up,  like  architects'  plans ;  some  loosely  strung  together  on 
files,  like  bills  or  letters.  The  room  had  once  been  lighted  by  a 
small  side  window ;  but  this  had  been  bricked  up,  and  a  lantern 
sky-light  was  now  substituted  for  it.  The  atmosphere  of  the  place 
was  heavy  and  moldy,  being  rendered  additionally  oppressive  by 
the  closing  of  the  door  which  led  into  the  church.  This  door  also 
was  composed  of  solid  oak,  and  was  bolted,  at  top  and  bottom,  on 
the  vestry  side. 

"  We  might  be  tidier,  mightn't  we,  sir  ?"  said  the  cheerfiil  clerk. 
"  But  when  you're  in  a  lost  corner  of  a  place  like  this,  what  are  you 
to  do?  Why,  look  here,  now — just  look  at  these  packing-cases. 
There  they've  been  for  a  year  or  more,  ready  to  go  down  to  London 
— there  they  are,  littering  the  place — and  there  they'll  stop  as  long 
as  the  nails  hold  them  together.  I'll  tell  you  what,  sir,  as  I  said 
before,  this  is  not  London.  We  are  all  asleep  here.  Bless  you,  we 
don't  inarch  with  the  times  !" 


438  TI1I<:    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  Wliat  is  there  in  the  packing-cases  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Bits  of  old  wood  carvings  from  the  pulpit,  and  panels  from  the 
chancel,  and  images  from  the  organ-loft,"  said  the  clerk.  "  Por- 
traits of  the  twelve  apostles  in  wood — and  not  a  whole  nose  among 
'em.  All  broken,  and  worm-eaten,  and  crumbling  to  dust  at  the 
edges — as  brittle  as  crockery,  sir,  and  as  old  as  the  church,  if  not 
older." 

''And  why  were  they  going  to  London  ?     To  be  repaired  ?" 

"  That's  it,  sir.  To  be  rejiaired ;  and  where  they  were  past  re- 
pair, to  be  copied  in  sound  wood.  But,  bless  you,  the  money  fell 
short — and  there  they  are,  waiting  for  new  subscriptions,  and  no- 
body to  subscribe.  It  was  all  done  a  year  ago,  sir.  Six  gentlemen 
dined  together  about  it  at  the  hotel  in  the  new  town.  They  made 
speeches,  and  passed  resolutions,  and  put  their  names  down,  and 
printed  oflf  thousands  of  prospectuses.  Beautiful  prospectuses,  sir, 
all  flourished  over  with  Gothic  devices  in  red  ink,  saying  it  vras  a 
disgrace  not  to  restore  the  church  and  repair  the  famous  carvings^ 
and  so  on.  There  are  the  prospectuses  that  couldn't  Vje  distributed, 
and  the  architect's  plans  and  estimates,  and  the  whole  correspond- 
ence, which  set  every  body  at  loggerheads  and  ended  in  a  dispute, 
all  down  together  in  that  corner  behind  the  packing-cases.  The 
money  dribljled  in  a  little  at  first — ^but  what  cun  you  expect  out  of 
London  ?  There  was  just  enough,  you  know,  to  pack  the  broken 
carvings,  and  get  the  estimates,  and  pay  the  printer's  bill — and  after 
that  there  wasn't  a  half-penny  left.  There  the  things  are,  as  I  said 
before.  We  have  nowhere  else  to  put  them — nobody  in  the  new 
town  cares  alxtut  accommodating  us — we're  in  a  lost  comer — and 
this  is  an  untidy  vestry — and  who's  to  help  it  ? — that's  what  I  want 
to  know," 

My  anxiety  to  examine  the  register  did  not  dispose  me  to  oflfer 
much  encouragement  to  the  old  man's  talkativeness.  I  agreed  with 
him  that  nobody  could  help  the  untidiness  of  the  vestry,  and  then 
suggested  that  we  should  proceed  to  our  business  without  more 
delay. 

"Ay,  ay,  the  marriage  register,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  clerk,  taking 
a  little  bunch  of  keys  from  his  pocket.  "  How  far  do  you  want  to 
look  back,  sir  ?" 

Marian  had  informed  me  of  Sir  Percival's  age  at  the  time  when 
we  had  spoken  together  of  his  marriage  engagement  with  Laura. 
She  had  then  described  him  as  being  forty-tive  years  old.  Calcu- 
lating back  from  this,  and  making  due  allowance  for  the  year  that 
had  passed  since  I  had  gained  my  information,  I  found  that  he  must 
liave  been  l)orn  in  eigliteen  hundred  and  four,  and  that  I  might  safe- 
ly start  on  my  search  through  the  register  from  that  date. 

"  I  want  to  begin  with  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  four  "  I 
said. 


UIIICII    ILVK    IJID    \OU    i>\\,   Mlt/' 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  441 

"Which  Tvay  after  that,  sir?"  asked  the  clerk.  "Forward  to  our 
time,  or  backward  away  from  us  V 

"  Backward  from  eighteen  hundred  and  four." 

He  opened  the  door  of  one  of  the  presses — the  press  fro\:i  the  side 
of  which  the  surplices  were  hanging — and  produced  a  large  volume 
bound  in  greasy  brown  leatlier.  I  was  struck  by  the  insecurity  of 
the  place  in  which  the  register  was  kept.  The  door  of  the  press 
was  warped  and  cracked  with  age ;  and  the  lock  was  of  the  small- 
est and  commonest  kind.  I  could  have  forced  it  easily  with  the 
walking-stick  I  carried  in  my  hand. 

"Is  that  considered  a  sufficiently  secure  place  for  the  register?"  I 
inquired.  "  Surely,  a  book  of  such  importance  as  this  ought  to  be 
protected  by  a  better  lock,  and  kept  carefully  in  an  iron  safe  I" 

"  Well,  now,  that's  curious  1"  said  the  clerk,  shutting  up  the  book 
again,  just  after  he  had  opened  it,  and  smacking  his  hand  cheerfully 
on  the  cover.  "  Those  were  the  very  words  my  old  master  was  al- 
ways saying  years  and  years  ago,  when  I  was  a  lad.  '  Why  isn't  the 
register'  (meaning  this  register  here  under  my  hand) — 'why  isn't  it 
kept  in  an  iron  safe  V  If  I've  heard  him  say  that  once,  I've  heard 
him  say  it  a  hundred  times.  He  was  the  solicitor  in  those  days, 
sir,  who  had  the  appointment  of  vestry-clerk  to  this  church.  A  fine, 
hearty  old  gentleman — and  the  most  particular  man  breathing.  As 
long  as  he  lived  he  kept  a  copy  of  this  book  in  his  office  at  Knowles- 
bury,  and  had  it  posted  up  regular,  from  time  to  time,  to  correspond 
with  the  fresh  entries  here.  You  would  hardly  think  it,  but  he  had 
his  own  appointed  days,  once  or  twice  in  every  quarter,  for  riding 
over  to  this  church  on  his  old  white  pony,  to  check  the  copy  by  the 
register  with  his  own  eyes  and  hands.  '  How  do  I  know '  (he  used 
to  say) — '  how  do  I  know  that  the  register  in  this  vestry  may  not  be 
stolen  or  destroyed  ?  Why  isn't  it  kept  in  an  iron  safe  ?  Why  can't 
I  make  other  people  as  careful  as  I  am  myself?  Some  of  these  days 
there  will  be  an  accident  haf>pen — and  when  the  register's  lost,  then 
the  parish  will  find  out  the  value  of  my  copy.'  He  used  to  take  his 
pinch  of  snuflf  after  that,  and  look  about  him  as  bold  as  a  lord.  Ah ! 
the  like  of  him  for  doing  business  isn't  easy  to  find  now.  You  may 
go  to  London,  and  not  match  him  even  there.  Which  year  did  you 
say,  sir  ?     Eighteen  hundred  and  what  ?" 

"  Eighteen  hundred  and  four,"  I  replied,  mentally  resolving  to 
give  the  old  man  no  more  opportunities  of  talking  until  my  exam- 
ination of  the  register  was  over. 

The  clerk  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the 
register,  carefully  wetting  his  ^nger  and  thumb  at  every  third  page. 
"  There  it  is,  sir,"  he  said,  with  another  cheerful  smack  on  the  open 
volume.     "  There's  the  year  you  want." 

As  I  was  ignorant  of  the  month  in  which  Sir  Percival  was  born,  I 

19* 


442  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

bcp^an  my  backward  searcli  with  the  early  part  of  the  year.  The 
register-book  M'as  of  the  old-fashioned  kind,  the  entries  being  all 
made  on  ])lank  pages,  in  manuscript,  and  the  divisions  which  sep- 
arated them  being  indicated  by  ink  lines  drawn  across  the  page,  at 
the  close  of  each  entry. 

I  reached  the  beginning  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  four, 
Trithout  encountering  tlie  marriage  ;  and  then  traveled  back  through 
December,  eighteen  hundred  and  three;  through  November,  and 
October;  through — 

No  !  not  through  September  also.  Under  the  heading  of  that 
month  in  the  year,  I  found  the  marriage. 

I  looked  carefully  at  the  entry.  It  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  page, 
and  was,  for  want  of  room,  compressed  into  a  smaller  space  than 
that  occupied  by  the  marriages  above.  The  marriage  immediately 
before  it  was  impressed  on  my  attention  by  the  circumstance  of  the 
bridegroom's  Christian  name  being  the  same  as  my  ov>ni.  The  entry 
immediately  following  it  (on  the  toj)  of  the  next  page)  was  noticea- 
ble in  another  way,  from  the  large  space  it  occupied  ;  the  record,  in 
this  case,  registering  the  marriages  of  two  brothers  at  the  same  time. 
The  register  of  the  marriage  of  Sir  Felix  Glyde  was  in  no  respect 
remarkable,  except  for  the  narrowness  of  the  space  into  which  it 
was  compressed  at  the  bottom  of  the  page.  The  information  about 
his  wife  was  the  usual  information  given  in  such  cases.  She  was  de- 
scribed as ''  Cecilia  JaneElster,  of  Park- View  Cottages.  Knowlesbury ; 
only  daughter  of  the  late  Patrick  Elster,  Esq.,  formerly  of  Bath." 

I  noted  down  these  particulars  in  my  pocket-book,  feeling,  as  I 
did  so,  both  doubtful  and  disheartened  about  my  next  proceedings. 
The  Secret,  which  I  had  believed,  until  this  moment,  to  be  within 
my  grasp,  seemed  now  further  from  my  reach  than  ever. 

What  suggestions  of  any  mystery  unexplained  had  arisen  out  of 
my  visit  to  the  vestry?  I  saw  no  suggestions  anywhere.  What 
progress  had  I  made  toward  discovering  the  suspected  stain  on  the 
reputation  of  Sir  Percival's  mother  ?  The  one  fact  I  had  ascertained 
vindicated  her  reputation.  Fresh  doubts,  fresh  difficulties,  fresh  de- 
lays, began  to  open  before  me  in  interminable  prospect.  What  was 
I  to  do  next  ?  The  one  immediate  resource  left  to  me  appeared  to 
be  this :  I  might  institute  inquiries  about  '•  Miss  Elster,  of  Knowles- 
bury," on  the  chance  of  advancing  toward  the  main  o1)ject  of  my  in- 
vestigation, by  first  discovering  the  secret  of  Mrs.  Catherick's  con- 
tempt for  Sir  Percival's  mother. 

"  Have  you  found  what  you  wanted,  sir  ?"  said  the  clerk,  as  I 
closed  the  register-book. 

''  Yes,"  I  replied ;  "  but  I  have  some  inquiries  still  to  make.  I 
suppose  the  clergyman  who  officiated  here  in  the  year  eighteen 
hundred  and  three  is  no  longer  alive  ?" 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE,  443 

"  No,  no,  sir ;  he  was  dead  three  or  four  years  before  I  came  here — 
and  that  was  as  long  ago  as  tlie  year  twenty-seven.  I  got  this  place, 
sir,"  persisted  my  talkative  old  friend,  ''through  the  clerk  before 
me  leaving  it.  They  say  he  was  driven  out  of  house  and  home  by 
his  wife — and  she's  living  still,  down  in  the  new  town  there.  I  don't 
know  the  rights  of  the  story  myself;  all  I  know  is,  I  got  the  place. 
Mr.  Wausborough  got  it  for  me — the  son  of  my  old  master  that  I 
was  telling  you  of  He's  a  free,  pleasant  gentleman  as  ever  lived; 
rides  to  the  hounds,  keeps  his  pointers,  and  all  that.  He's  vestry- 
clerk  here  now,  as  his  father  was  before  him." 

"  Did  you  not  tell  me  your  former  master  lived  at  Knowlesbury  ?" 
I  asked,  calling  to  mind  the  long  story  about  the  precise  gentleman 
of  the  old  school,  with  which  my  talkative  friend  had  wearied  me 
before  he  opened  the  register-book. 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,  sir,"  replied  the  clerk.  "  Old  Mr.  Wansborough 
lived  at  Knov/lesbury,  and  young  Mr.  Wansborough  lives  there  too." 

"  You  said  just  now  he  was  vestry-clerk,  like  his  father  before 
him.     I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  know  what  a  vestry-clerk  is." 

"  Don't  you  indeed,  sir  ? — and  you  come  from  London  too  !  Every 
parish  church,  you  know,  has  a  vestiy-clerk  and  a  parish-clerk.  The 
parish-clerk  is  a  man  like  me  (except  that  I've  got  a  deal  more  learn- 
ing than  most  of  them — though  I  don't  boast  of  it).  The  vestry- 
clerk  is  a  sort  of  an  appointment  that  the  lawyers  get ;  and  if  there's 
any  business  to  be  done  for  the  vestry,  why  there  they  are  to  do  it. 
It's  just  the  same  in  London.  Every  parish  church  there  has  got 
its  vestry-clerk — and,  you  may  take  my  word  for  it,  he's  sure  to  be 
a  lawyer." 

"  Then,  young  Mr.  "Wansborough  is  a  lawyer,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Of  course  he  is,  sir !  A  lawyer  in  High  Street,  Knowlesbury — 
the  old  offices  that  his  father  had  before  him.  The  number  of  times 
I've  swept  those  offices  out,  and  seen  the  old  gentleman  come  trot- 
ting in  to  business  on  his  white  pony,  looking  right  and  left  all 
down  the  street,  and  nodding  to  everybody !  Bless  you,  he  was  a 
popular  character ! — he'd  have  done  in  London  !" 

"  How  far  is  it  to  Knowlesbury  from  this  place  ?" 

"A  long  stretch,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  with  that  exaggerated  idea 
of  distances  and  that  vivid  perception  of  difficulties  in  getting  from 
place  to  place,  which  is  peculiar  to  all  country  people.  "  Nigh  on 
five  mile,  I  can  tell  you  !'' 

It  was  still  early  in  the  forenoon.  There  was  plenty  of  time  for  a 
walk  to  Knowlesbury,  and  back  again  to  Welmingham ;  and  there 
was  no  person,  probably,  in  the  town  who  was  fitter  to  assist  my  in- 
quiries about  the  character  and  position  of  Sir  Percival's  mother, 
before  her  marriage,  than  the  local  solicitor.  Resolving  to  go  at 
once  to  Knowlesbury  on  foot,  I  led  the  way  out  of  the  vestry. 


444  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  sir,"  said  the  clerk,  as  I  slipped  my  little 
present  into  his  hand.  "Are  you  really  going  to  ^alk  all  the  M'ay 
to  Knowlesbury  and  back  ?  Well  I  you're  strong  on  your  legs,  too 
— and  what  a  blessing  that  is,  isn't  it  ?  There's  the  road ;  you  can't 
miss  it.  I  wish  I  was  going  your  way — it's  pleasant  to  meet  with 
gentlemen  from  London  in  a  lost  corner  like  this.  One  hears  the 
news.  Wish  you  good-morning,  sir  —  and  thank  a'ou  kindly  once 
more." 

We  parted.  As  I  left  the  church  behind  me,  I  looked  back — 
and  there  were  the  two  men  again,  on  tlie  road  below,  with  a  third 
in  their  company,  that  third  person  being  the  short  man  in  black 
whom  I  had  traced  to  the  railway  the  evening  before. 

The  three  stood  talking  together  for  a  little  while — then  sepa- 
rated. The  man  in  black  went  away  by  himself  toward  Welming- 
ham ;  the  other  two  remained  together,  evidently  waiting  to  follow 
me,  as  soon  as  I  walked  on. 

I  proceeded  on  my  way,  without  letting  the  fellows  see  that  I 
took  any  special  notice  of  them.  They  caused  me  no  conscious  ir- 
ritation of  feeling  at  that  moment ;  on  the  contrary,  they  rather  re- 
vived my  sinking  hopes.  In  the  surprise  of  discovering  the  evi- 
dence of  the  marriage,  I  had  forgotten  the  inference  I  had  drawn, 
on  first  perceiving  the  men  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  vestry. 
Their  re-appearance  reminded  me  that  Sir  Percival  had  anticipated 
my  visit  to  Old  Welmingham  church,  as  the  next  result  of  my  inter- 
view with  Mrs.  Catherick ;  otherrs'ise,  he  would  never  have  placed 
his  spies  there  to  wait  for  me.  Smoothly  and  fairly  as  appearances 
looked  in  the  vestry,  there  was  something  wrong  beneath  them — 
there  was  something  in  the  register -book,  for  aught  I  knew,  that  I 
had  not  discovered  yet. 

X. 

Once  out  of  sight  of  the  church,  I  pressed  forward  briskly  on  my 
way  to  Knowlesbury. 

The  road  was,  for  the  most  part,  straight  and  level.  AVhenever 
I  looked  back  over  it,  I  saw  the  two  spies,  steadily  following  me. 
For  the  greater  part  of  the  way,  they  kept  at  a  safe  distance  behind. 
But  once  or  twice  they  quickened  their  pace,  as  if  with  the  purpose 
of  overtaking  me — then  stopped — consulted  together — and  fell  back 
again  to  their  former  position.  They  had  some  special  object,  evi- 
dently, in  view ;  and  they  seemed  to  be  hesitating,  or  diflering, 
about  the  best  means  of  accomplishing  it.  I  could  not  guess  exact- 
ly what  their  design  might  be,  but  I  felt  serious  doubts  of  reaching 
Knowlesbury  without  some  mischance  happening  to  me  on  the  way. 
Those  doubts  were  realized. 

I  had  just  entered  on  a  lonely  part  of  the  road,  with  a  sharp  turn 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  445 

at  some  distance  ahead,  and  had  just  concluded  (calculating  by 
timej  that  I  must  be  getting  near  to  the  town,  when  I  suddenly 
heard  the  steps  of  the  men  close  behind  me. 

Before  I  could  look  round,  one  of  them  (the  man  by  whom  I  had 
been  followed  in  London)  passed  rapidly  on  my  left  side,  and  hus- 
tled me  w^ith  his  shoulder.  I  had  been  more  irritated  by  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  and  his  companion  had  dogged  my  steps  all  the 
way  from  Old  Welmingham  tlian  I  was  myself  aware  of;  and  I  un- 
fortunately pushed  the  fellow  away  smartly  with  my  open  hand. 
He  instantly  shouted  for  help.  His  companion,  the  tall  man  in  the 
gamekeeper  s  clothes,  sprang  to  my  right  side,  and  the  next  moment 
the  two  scoundrels  held  me  pinioned  between  them  in  the  middle 
of  the  road. 

The  con\dction  that  a  trap  had  been  laid  for  me,  and  the  vexation 
of  knowing  that  I  had  fallen  into  it,  fortunately  restrained  me  from 
making  my  position  still  worse  by  an  unavailing  struggle  with  two 
men — one  of  whom  would  in  all  probability  have  been  more  than  a 
match  for  me  single-handed.  I  repressed  the  first  natural  move- 
ment by  wdiich  I  had  attempted  to  shake  them  off,  and  looked 
about  to  see  if  there  was  any  person  near  to  whom  I  could  appeal. 

A  laborer  was  at  w^ork  in  an  adjoining  field,  who  must  have  wit- 
nessed all  that  had  passed :  I  called  to  him  to  follow  us  to  the  town. 
He  shook  his  head  with  stolid  obstinacy,  and  walked  away  in  the 
direction  of  a  cottage  which  stood  back  from  the  high-road.  At 
the  same  time  the  men  who  held  me  between  them  declared  their 
intention  of  charging  me  with  an  assault.  I  w^as  cool  enough  and 
wdse  enough,  now,  to  make  no  opposition.  "Drop  your  hold  of  my 
arms,"  I  said,  "  and  I  will  go  with  you  to  the  town."  The  man  in 
the  gamekeeper's  dress  roughly  refused.  But  the  shorter  man  was 
sharp  enough  to  look  to  consequences,  and  not  to  let  his  compan- 
ion commit  himself  by  unnecessary  violence.  He  made  a  sign  to 
the  other,  and  I  walked  on  between  them,  with  my  arms  free. 

We  reached  the  turning  in  the  road ;  and  there,  close  before  us, 
w^ere  the  suburbs  of  Knowiesbury.  One  of  the  local  policemen  was 
walking  along  the  path  by  the  road-side.  The  men  at  once  appeal- 
ed to  him.  He  replied  that  the  magistrate  was  then  sitting  at  the 
town-hall,  and  recommended  that  we  should  appear  before  him  im- 
mediately. 

We  went  on  to  the  town-hall.  The  clerk  made  out  a  formal  sum- 
mons ;  and  the  charge  was  preferred  against  me,  with  the  customary 
exaggeration  and  the  customary  perversion  of  the  truth,  on  such  oc- 
casions. The  magistrate  (an  ill-tempered  man,  \yith  a  sour  enjoy- 
ment in  the  exercise  of  his  own  powder)  inquired  if  any  one  on  or 
near  the  road  had  witnessed  the  assault ;  and,  greatly  to  my  sur- 
prise, the  complainant  admitted  the  presence  of  the  laborer  in  the 


446  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

field.  I  was  cnlif]^htened,  however,  as  to  the  object  of  tlie  admis- 
sion, by  the  mai^nstrate's  next  words.  He  remanded  me  at  once  for 
the  production  of  tlic  witness,  expressing,  at  the  same  time,  his  will- 
ingness to  take  bail  for  my  re-appearance,  if  I  could  produce  one 
res])onsible  surety  to  offer  it.  If  I  had  been  known  in  the  town, 
he  would  have  liberated  me  on  my  own  recognizances ;  but,  as  I 
was  a  total  stranger,  it  was  necessary  that  I  should  find  responsible 
bail. 

The  whole  object  of  the  stratagem  was  now  disclosed  to  me.  It 
had  been  so  managed  as  to  make  a  remand  necessary  in  a  town 
where  I  was  a  perfect  stranger,  and  where  I  could  not  hope  to  get 
my  liberty  on  bail.  The  remand  merely  extended  over  three  days, 
until  the  next  sitting  of  the  magistrate.  But  in  that  time,  while  I 
was  in  confinement,  Sir  Percival  might  use  any  means  he  pleased  to 
embarrass  my  future  proceedings — perhaps  to  screen  himself  from 
detection  altogether — without  the  slightest  fear  of  any  hinderance 
on  my  part.  At  the  end  of  the  three  days,  the  charge  would,  no 
doubt,  be  withdrawn,  and  the  attendance  of  the  witness  would  be 
perfectly  useless. 

My  indignation,  I  may  almost  say  my  despair,  at  this  mischievous 
check  to  all  further  progress — so  base  and  trifling  in  itself,  and  yet 
so  disheartening  and  so  serious  in  its  probable  results — quite  unfit- 
ted me,  at  first,  to  reflect  on  the  best  means  of  extricating  myself 
from  the  dilemma  in  which  I  now  stood.  I  had  the  folly  to  call  for 
writing  materials,  and  to  think  of  privately  communicating  my  real 
position  to  the  magistrate.  The  hopelessness  and  the  imprudence 
of  this  proceeding  failed  to  strike  me  before  I  had  actually  w^ritten 
the  opening  lines  of  the  letter.  It  was  not  till  I  had  pushed  the 
paper  away — not  till,  I  am  ashamed  to  say,  I  had  almost  allowed  the 
vexation  of  my  helpless  position  to  conquer  me — that  a  course  of 
action  suddenly  occurred  to  my  mind,  which  Sir  Percival  had  prob- 
ably not  anticipated,  and  which  might  set  me  free  again  in  a  few 
hours.  I  determined  to  communicate  the  situation  in  which  I  was 
placed  to  Mr.  Dawson,  of  Oak  Lodge. 

I  had  visited  this  gentleman's  house,  it  may  be  remembered,  at 
the  time  of  my  first  inquiries  in  the  Blackwater  Park  neighborhood; 
and  I  had  presented  to  him  a  letter  of  introduction  from  Miss  Hal- 
combe,  in  which  she  recommended  me  to  his  friendly  attention  in 
the  strongest  terms.  I  now  wrote,  referring  to  this  letter,  and  to 
what  I  had  previously  told  Mr.  Dawson  of  the  delicate  and  dan- 
gerous nature  of  my  inquiries.  I  had  not  revealed  to  him  the  truth 
about  Laura;  having  merely  described  my  errand  as  being  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  private  family  interests  with  which  Miss  Hal- 
combe  was  concerned.  Using  the  same  caution  still,  I  now  account- 
ed for  my  presence  at  Knowlesbury  in  the  same  manner — and  I  put 


THE    WOilAN    IX    AVHITE.  447 

it  to  the  doctor  to  say  whether  the  trust  reposed  in  me  l)y  a  lady 
whom  he  well  knew,  and  the  hospitality  I  had  myself  received  in 
his  huuse,  justified  me  or  not  in  asking  him  to  come  to  my  assist- 
ance in  a  place  where  I  was  quite  friendless. 

I  obtained  permission  to  hire  a  messenger  to  drive  away  at  once 
with  my  letter,  in  a  conveyance  which  might  be  used  to  bring  the 
doctor  back  immediately.  Oak  Lodge  was  on  the  Knowlesbury 
side  of  Black  water.  The  man  declared  he  could  drive  there  in 
forty  minutes,  and  could  bring  Mr.  Dawson  back  in  forty  more.  I 
directed  him  to  follow  the  doctor  wherever  he  might  happen  to 
be,  if  he  was  not  at  home — and  then  sat  down  to  wait  for  the  re- 
sult with  all  the  patience  and  all  the  hope  that  I  could  summon  to 
help  me.  » 

It  was  not  quite  half- past  one  when  the  messenger  departed. 
Before  half- past  three  he  returned,  and  brought  the  doctor  with 
him.  Mr.  Dawson's  kindness,  and  the  delicacy  with  which  he  treat- 
ed his  prompt  assistance  quite  as  a  matter  of  course,  almost  over- 
powered me.  The  bail  required  was  offered,  and  accepted  immedi- 
ately. Before  four  o'clock  on  that  afternoon,  I  was  shaking  hands 
warmly  with  the  good  old  doctor — a  free  man  again — in  the  streets 
of  Knowlesbury. 

^Ii'.  Dawson  hospitably  invited  me  to  go  back  with  him  to  Oak 
Lodge,  and  take  up  my  quarters  there  for  the  night.  I  could  only 
reply  that  my  time  was  not  my  own ;  and  I  could  only  ask  him  to 
let  me  pay  my  visit  in  a  few  days,  when  I  might  repeat  my  thanks, 
and  offer  to  him  all  the  explanations  which  I  felt  to  be  only  his  due, 
but  which  I  was  not  then  in  a  position  to  makp.  We  parted  with 
friendly  assurances  on  both  sides ;  and  I  turned  my  steps  at  once  to 
Mr.  "NVansborough's  ofiice  in  the  High  Street. 

Time  was  now  of  the  last  importance. 

The  news  of  my  being  free  on  bail  would  reach  Sir  Percival,  to 
an  absolute  certainty,  before  night.  If  the  next  few  hours  did  not 
put  me  in  a  position  to  justify  his  worst  fears,  and  to  hold  him 
helpless  at  my  mercy,  I  might  lose  every  inch  of  the  ground  I  had 
gained,  never  to  recover  it  again.  The  unscrupulous  nature  of  the 
man,  the  local  influence  he  possessed,  the  desperate  peril  of  expo- 
sure with  which  my  blindfold  inciuiries  threatened  him,  all  warned 
me  to  press  on  to  positive  discovery,  without  the  useless  waste  of  a 
single  minute.  I  had  found  time  to  think,  while  I  was  waiting  for 
Mr.  Dawson's  arrival ;  and  I  had  well  employed  it.  Certain  por- 
tions of  the  conversation  of  the  talkative  old  clerk,  which  had  wea- 
ried me  at  the  time,  now  recurred  to  my  memory  with  a  new  signifi- 
cance ;  and  a  suspicion  crossed  my  mind  darkly,  which  had  not  oc- 
curred to  me  while  I  was  in  the  vestry.  On  my  way  to  Knowles- 
bury, I  had  only  proposed  to,  apply  to  Mr.  Wansborough  for  infoi- 


448  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

mation  on  tlic  subject  of  Sir  Percival's  mother.  My  object,  now, 
v.as  to  examine  the  duplicate  register  of  Old  Welminghani  Church. 

Mr.  Wansljorough  was  in  his  office  when  I  inquired  for  him. 

He  was  a  jovial,  red-faced,  easy-looking  man — more  like  a  coun- 
try squire  than  a  lawyer — and  he  seemed  to  be  both  surprised  and 
amused  by  my  application.  He  had  heard  of  his  father's  copy  of 
the  register,  but  had  not  even  seen  it  himself.  It  had  never  been 
inquired  after — and  it  was  no  doubt  in  the  strong-room,  among  oth- 
2r  papers  that  had  not  been  disturbed  since  his  father's  death.  It 
was  a  pity  (Mr.  Wansborough  said)  that  the  old  gentleman  was  not 
alive  to  hear  his  precious  copy  asked  for  at  last.  He  would  have 
ridden  his  favorite  hobby  harder  than  ever  now.  How  had  I  come 
to  hear  of  the  copy  ?  was  it  through  any  body  in  the  town  ? 

I  parried  the  question  as  well  as  I  could.  It  was  impossible,  at 
this  stage  of  the  investigation,  to  be  too  cautious  ;  and  it  was  just  as 
well  not  to  let  Mr.  Wansborough  know  prematurely  that  I  had  al- 
ready examined  the  original  register.  I  described  myself,  therefore, 
as  pursuing  a  family  inquiry,  to  the  object  of  which  every  possible 
saving  of  time  was  of  great  importance.  I  was  anxious  to  send  cer- 
tain particulars  to  London  by  that  day's  post ;  and  one  look  at  the 
duplicate  register  (paying,  of  course,  the  necessary  fees)  might  sup- 
ply what  I  required,  and  save  me  a  further  journey  to  Old  Welming- 
ham.  I  added  that,  in  the  event  of  my  subsequently  requiring  a 
copy  of  the  original  register,  I  should  make  application  to  Mr.  "Wans- 
borough's  office  to  furnish  me  with  the  document. 

After  this  explanation,  no  objection  was  made  to  producing  the 
copy.  A  clerk  wa§  sent  to  the  strong-room,  and,  after  some  delay, 
returned  with  the  volume.  It  was  of  exactly  the  same  size  as  the 
volume  in  the  vestry ;  the  only  difference  being  that  the  copy  was 
more  smartly  bound.  I  took  it  with  me  to  an  unoccupied  desk. 
My  hands  were  trembling,  my  head  was  burning  hot ;  I  felt  the 
necessity  of  concealing  my  agitation  as  well  as  I  could  from  the 
persons  about  me  in  the  room,  before  I  ventured  on  opening  the 
book. 

On  the  blank  page  at  the  beginning,  to  which  I  first  turned,  were 
traced  some  lines,  in  faded  ink.     They  contained  these  words : 

"  Copy  of  the  Marriage  Register  of  Welmingham  Parish  Church. 
Executed  under  my  orders ;  and  afterward  compared,  entry  by  entry, 
with  the  original,  by  myself.  (Signed)  Robert  Wansborough,  vestry- 
clerk."  Below  this  note  there  was  a  line  added,  in  another  hand- 
writing, as  follows:  "  Extending  from  the  first  of  January,  1800,  to 
the  thirtieth  of  June,  1815." 

I  turned  to  the  month  of  September,  eighteen  hundred  and  three. 
I  found  tlic  marriage  of  the  man  whose  Christian  name  was  the 
same  as  my  own.     I  found  the  double  register  of  the  marriages  of 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  449 

the  two  brothers.     And  between  these  entries,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
page—  ? 

iSTothing !  Not  a  vestige  of  the  entry  which  recorded  the  mar- 
riage of  Sir  Felix  Glyde  and  Cecilia  Jane  Elster,  in  the  register  of 
the  church  I 

My  heart  gave  a  great  bound,  and  tlirobljed  as  if  it  would  stifle 
me.  I  looked  again — I  was  afraid  to  believe  the  evidence  of  my 
own  eyes.  No  !  not  a  doubt.  The  marriage  was  not  there.  The 
entries  on  the  copy  occupied  exactly  the  same  places  on  the  page  as 
the  entries  in  the  original.  The  last  entry  on  one  page  recorded  the 
marriage  of  the  man  with  my  Christian  name.  Below^  it  there  was  a 
blank  space — a  space  evidently  left  because  it  was  too  narrow  to  con- 
tain the  entry  of  the  marriages  of  the  two  brothers,  which  in  the  copy, 
as  in  the  original,  occupied  the  top  of  the  next  page.  That  space 
told  the  whole  story  I  There  it  must  have  remained,  in  the  church 
register,  from  eighteen  hundred  and  three  (when  the  marriages  had 
been  solemnized  and  the  copy  had  been  made)  to  eighteen  hundred  t^«2^ 
and  twenty-seven,  when  Sir  Percival  appeared  at  Old  Welmingham.  ' 
Here,  at  Knowlesbury,  was  the  chance  of  committing  the  forgery, 
shown  to  me  in  the  copy — and  there,  at  Old  Welmingham,  was  the 
forgery  committed,  in  the  register  of  the  church. 

My  head  turned  giddy ;  I  held  by  the  desk  to  keep  myself  from 
falling.  Of  all  the  suspicions  which  had  struck  me  in  relation  to 
that  desperate  man,  not  one  had  been  near  the  truth.  The  idea  that ' 
he  was  not  Sir  Percival  Glyde  at  all,  that  he  had  no  more  claim  to 
the  baronetcy  and  to  Blackwater  Park  than  the  poorest  laborer  whaj 
worked  on  the  estate,  had  never  once  occurred  to-Hny  mind.  At  onel 
time  I  had  thought  he  might  be  Anne  Catherick's  father ;  at  another 
time  I  had  thought  he  might  have  been  Anne  Catherick's  husband 
— the  oflense  of  which  he  was  really  guilty  had  been,  from  first  to 
last,  beyond  the  widest  reacli  of  my  imagination. 

The  paltry  means  by  which  the  fraud  had  been  effected,  the  mag- 
nitude and  daring  of  the  crime  that  it  represented,  the  horror  of  the 
consequences  involved  in  its  discovery,  overwhelmed  me.  Who 
could  wonder  now  at  the  brute-restlessness  of  the  wretch's  life ;  at 
his  desperate  alternations  between  abject  duplicity  and  reckless  vi- 
olence ;  at  the  madness  of  guilty  distrust  which  had  made  him  im- 
prison Anne  Catherick  in  the  Asylum,  and  had  given  him  over  to 
the  vile  conspiracy  against  his  wife,  on  the  bare  suspicion  that  the 
one  and  the  other  knew  his  terrible  secret  ?  The  disclosure  of  that 
secret  might,  in  past  years,  have  hanged  him — might  now  transport 
him  for  life.  The  disclosure  of  that  secret,  even  if  the  sufferers  by 
his  deception  spared  him  the  penalties  of  the  law,  would  deprive 
him,  at  one  blovr,  of  the  name,  the  rank,  the  estate,  the  whole  social 
existence  that  he  had  usurjoed.     This  was  the  Secret,  and  it  was 


450  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

mine !  A  word  from  me,  and  house,  lands,  baronetcy,  were  gone 
from  him  forever — a  word  from  me,  and  he  was  driven  out  into  the 
work],  a  nameless,  penniless,  friendless  outcast.  The  man's  whole 
future  hung  on  my  lips — and  he  knew  it  by  this  time  as  certainly  as 
I  did  ! 

Tlkit  last  thought  steadied  me.  Interests  far  more  precious  than 
my  own  depended  on  the  caution  which  must  now  guide  my  slight- 
est actions.  There  was  no  possible  treachery  which  Sir  Percival 
might  not  attempt  against  me.  In  the  danger  and  desperation  of 
liis  position,  he  would  be  staggered  by  no  risks,  he  would  recoil  at 
no  crime — he  would,  literally,  hesitate  at  nothing  to  save  himself. 

I  considered  for  a  minute.  My  first  necessity  was  to  secure  posi- 
tive evidence  in  writing  of  the  discovery  that  I  had  just  made,  and, 
in  the  event  of  any  personal  misadventure  happening  to  me,  to  place 
that  evidence  beyond  Sir  PercivaFs  reach.  The  copy  of  the  register 
was  sure  to  be  safe  in  Mr.  Wansborough's  strong-room.  But  the  po- 
sition of  the  original  in  the  vestry  was,  as  I  had  seen  with  my  own 
eyes,  any  thing  but  secure. 

In  this  emergency,  I  resolved  to  return  to  the  church,  to  apply 
again  to  the  clerk,  and  to  take  the  necessary  extract  from  the  regis- 
ter, before  I  slept  that  night.  I  was  not  then  aware  that  a  legally- 
certified' copy  was  necessary,  and  that  no  document  merely  drawn 
out  by  myself  could  claim  the  proper  importance  as  a  proof.  I  was 
not  aware  of  this ;  and  my  determination  to  keep  my  present  pro- 
ceedings a  secret  prevented  me  from  asking  any  questions  which 
might  have  procured  the  necessary  information.  My  one  anxiety 
was  the  anxiety  to  get  back  to  Old  Welmingham.  I  made  the  best 
excuses  I  could  for  the  discomposure  in  my  face  and  manner,  which 
Mr.  Wansborough  had  already  noticed ;  laid  the  necessary  fee  on  his 
table ;  arranged  that  I  should  write  to  him  in  a  day  or  two ;  and 
left  the  ofiice,  with  my  head  in  a  whirl,  and  my  blood  throbbing 
through  my  veins  at  fever  heat. 

It  was  just  getting  dark.  The  idea  occurred  to  me  that  I  might 
be  followed  again,  and  attacked  on  the  high-road. 

My  walking-stick  was  a  light  one,  of  little  or  no  use  for  purposes 
of  defense.  I  stopped,  before  leaving  Knowlesbury,  and  bought  a 
stout  country  cudgel,  short,  and  heavy  at  the  head.  With  this 
homely  weapon,  if  any  one  man  tried  to  stop  me,  I  was  a  match  for 
him.  If  more  than  one  attacked  me,  I  could  trust  to  my  heels.  In 
my  school-days  I  had  been  a  noted  runner — and  I  had  not  wanted 
for  practice  since,  in  the  later  time  of  my  experience  in  Central 
America. 

I  started  from  the  town  at  a  brisk  pace,  and  kept  the  middle  of 
the  road. 

A  small,  misty  rain  was  falling ;  and  it  was  impossible,  for  the  first 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  451 

half  of  the  way,  to  make  sure  whether  I  was  followed  or  not.  But  at 
the  last  half  of  my  journey,  when  I  supposed  myself  to  be  about  two 
miles  from  the  church,  I  saw  a  man  run  by  me  in  the  rain,  and  then 
heard  the  gate  of  a  field  by  the  road-side  shut  to  sharply.  I  kept 
straight  on,  with  my  cudgel  ready  in  my  hand,  my  ears  on  the  alert, 
and  my  eyes  straining  to  see  through  the  mist  and  darkness.  Be- 
fore I  had  advanced  a  hundred  yards,  there  was  a  rustling  in  the 
hedge  on  my  right,  and  three  men  sprang  out  into  the  road. 

I  drew  aside  on  the  instant  to  the  foot-path.  The  two  foremost 
men  were  carried  beyond  me  before  they  could  check  themselves. 
The  third  was  as  quick  as  lightning.  He  stopped — half  turned — 
and  struck  at  me  with  his  stick.  The  blow  was  aimed  at  hazard, 
and  was  not  a  severe  one.  It  fell  on  my  left  shoulder.  I  returned 
it  heavily  on  his  head.  He  staggered  back  and  jostled  his  two 
companions  just  as  they  were  both  rushing  at  me.  This  circum- 
stance gave  me  a  moment's  start.  I  slipped  by  them,  and  took  to 
tlie  middle  of  the  road  again  at  the  top  of  my  speed. 

The  two  unhurt  men  pursued  me.  They  were  both  good  run- 
ners ;  the  road  was  smooth  and  level ;  and  for  the  first  five  minutes 
or  more  I  was  conscious  that  I  did  not  gain  on  them.  It  was  per- 
ilous work  to  run  for  long  in  the  darkness.  I  could  barely  see  the 
dim  black  line  of  the  hedges  on  either  side ;  and  any  chance  obsta- 
cle in  the  road  would  have  thrown  me  down  to  a  certainty.  Ere 
long  I  felt  the  ground  changing :  it  descended  from  the  level  at  a 
turn,  and  then  rose  again  beyond.  Down  hill  the  men  rather  gain- 
ed on  me ;  but  up  hill  I  began  to  distance  them.  The  rapid,  regu- 
lar thump  of  their  feet  grew  fainter  on  my  ear ;  and  I  calculated  by 
the  sound  that  I  was  tar  enough  in  advance  to  take  to  the  fields, 
with  a  good  chance  of  their  passing  me  in  the  darkness.  Diver- 
ging to  the  foot-path,  I  made  for  the  first  break  that  I  could  guess 
at,  rather  than  see,  in  the  hedge.  It  proved  to  be  a  closed  gate.  I 
vaulted  over,  and  finding  myself  in  a  field,  kept  across  it  steadily, 
with  my  back  to  the  road.  I  heard  the  men  pass  the  gate,  still 
running — then,  in  a  minute  more,  heard  one  of  them  call  to  the  oth- 
er to  come  back.  It  was  no  matter  what  they  did  now ;  I  was  out 
of  their  sight,  and  out  of  their  hearing.  I  Ivept  straight  across  the 
field,  and,  when  I  had  reached  the  farther  extremity  of  it,  waited 
there  for  a  minute  to  recover  my  breath. 

It  was  impossible  to  venture  back  to  the  road ;  but  I  was  deter- 
mined, nevertheless,  to  get  to  Old  Welmingham  that  evening. 

IS'either  moon  nor  stars  appeared  to  guide  me.  I  only  knew  that 
I  had  kept  the  wind  and  rain  at  my  back  on  leaving  Knowlesbuiy, 
and  if  I  now  kept  them  at  my  back  still.  I  might  at  least  be  certain 
of  not  advancing  altogether  in  the  wrong  direction. 

Proceeding  on  this  plan,  I  crossed  the  country — meeting  with  no 


452  THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE. 

worse  obstacles  than  hedges,  ditches,  and  tliickets,  which  every  no\7 
and  then  obliged  me  to  alter  my  course  for  a  little  while — until  I 
found  myself  on  a  hill-side,  with  the  ground  sloping  away  steeply 
before  me.  I  descended  to  the  bottom  of  the  hollow,  squeezed  my 
way  through  a  hedge,  and  got  out  into  a  lane.  Having  turned  to 
the  right  on  leaving  the  road,  I  now  turned  to  the  left,  on  the 
chance  of  regaining  the  line  from  which  I  had  wandered.  After 
following  the  muddy  windings  of  the  lane  for  ten  minutes  or  more, 
I  saw  a  cottage  with  a  light  in  one  of  the  windows.  The  garden- 
gate  was  open  to  the  lane,  and  I  went  in  at  once  to  inquire  my  way. 

Before  I  could  knock  at  the  door  it  was  suddenly  opened,  and  a 
man  came  running  out  with  a  lighted  lantern  in  his  hand.  He 
stopped  and  held  it  up  at  the  sight  of  me.  We  both  started  as  we 
saw  each  other.  3Iy  wanderings  had  led  me  round  the  outskirts 
of  the  village,  and  had  brought  me  out  at  the  lower  end  of  it.  I 
was  back  at  Old  Welmingham ;  and  the  man  vdth  the  lantern  was 
no  other  than  my  acquaintance  of  the  morning,  the  parish  clerk. 

His  manner  appeared  to  have  altered  strangely  in  the  interval 
since  I  had  last  seen  him.  He  looked  suspicious  and  confused ;  his 
ruddy  cheeks  were  deeply  flushed ;  and  his  first  words,  when  he 
spoke,  were  ciuite  unintelligible  to  me. 

"  Where  are  the  keys  ?"  he  asked.     "  Have  you  taken  them  ?" 

"  What  keys  ?"  I  repeated.  ''  I  have  this  moment  come  from 
Knowlesbury.     What  keys  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  The  keys  of  the  vestry.  Lord  save  us  and  help  us  I  what  shall 
I  do  ?  The  keys  are  gone  !  Do  you  hear  ?"  cried  the  old  man,  shak- 
ing the  lantern  at  me  in  his  agitation ;  "  the  keys  are  gone  !" 

'*  How  ?     When  ?     Who  can  have  taken  them  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  clerk,  staring  about  him  wildly  in  the 
darkness.  "  I've  only  just  got  back.  I  told  you  I  had  a  long  day's 
work  this  morning — I  locked  the  door,  and  slmt  the  window  down 
— it's  open  now,  the  window's  open.  Look !  somebody  has  got  in 
there  and  taken  the  keys." 

He  turned  to  the  casement  window  to  show  me  that  it  was  wide 
open.  The  door  of  the  lantern  came  loose  ft-om  its  fastening  as  he 
swayed  it  round,  and  the  wind  blew  the  candle  out  instantly. 

"  Get  another  light,"  I  said,  '•  and  let  us  both  go  to  the  vestry 
together.     Quick  I  quick  I" 

I  hurried  him  into  the  house.  The  treachery  that  I  had  every 
reason  to  expect,  the  treachery  that  might  deprive  me  of  every  ad- 
vantage I  had  gained,  was  at  that  moment,  perhaps,  in  process  of 
accom])lishment.  My  impatience  to  reach  the  church  was  so  great, 
that  I  could  not  remain  inactive  in  the  cottage  while  the  clerk  lit 
the  lantern  again.  I  walked  out,  down  the  garden  path,  into  the 
lane. 


THE    WOMAN    IS    WHITE.  453 

Before  I  had  advanced  ten  paces,  a  man  approached  me  from  tlie 
direction  leading  to  the  church.  He  spoke  respectfully  as  we  met. 
I  could  not  see  his  flice  ;  but,  judging  by  his  voice  only,  he  was  a 
perfect  stranger  to  me. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Sir  Percival — "  he  began. 

I  stopped  him  before  he  could  say  more. 

"  The  darkness  misleads  you,"  I  said.     "  I  am  not  Sir  Percival." 

The  man  drew  back  directly. 

"I  thought  it  was  my  master,"  he  muttered,  in  a  confused,  doubt- 
ful way. 

"  You  expected  to  meet  your  master  here  ?" 

"  I  was  told  to  wait  in  the  lane." 

With  that  answer,  he  retraced  his  steps.  I  looked  back  at  the 
cottage,  and  saw  the  clerk  coming  out,  with  the  lantern  lighted 
once  more.  I  took  the  old  man's  arm  to  help  him  on  the  more 
quickly.  "We  hastened  along  the  lane,  and  passed  the  person  who 
had  accosted  me.  As  well  as  I  could  see  by  the  light  of  the  lantern, 
he  was  a  servant  out  of  livery. 

"Who's  that  ?"  whispered  the  clerk.  "  Does  he  know  any  thing 
about  the  keys  ?" 

"  We  won't  wait  to  ask  him,"  I  replied.  "  We  will  go  on  to  the 
vestry  first." 

The  church  was  not  visible,  even  by  day-time,  until  the  end  of 
the  lane  was  reached.  As  we  mounted  the  rising  ground  which  led 
to  the  building  from  that  point,  one  of  the  village  children — a  boy 
— came  close  up  to  us,  attracted  by  the  light  we  carried,  and  recog- 
nized the  clerk. 

"  I  say,  measter,"  said  the  boy,  pulling  officiously  at  the  clerk's 
coat,  "  there  be  summun  up  yander  in  the  church.  I  heerd  un  lock 
the  door  on  hisself — I  heerd  un  strike  a  loight  wi'  a  match." 

The  clerk  trembled,  and  leaned  against  me  heavily. 

"  Come  !  come  1"  I  said,  encouragingly.  "  We  are  not  too  late. 
We  will  catch  the  man,  whoever  he  is.  Keep  the  lantern,  and  fol- 
low me  as  fast  as  you  can." 

I  mounted  the  hill  rapidly.  The  dark  mass  of  the  church-tower 
was  the  first  object  I  discerned  dimly  against  the  night  sky.  As  1 
turned  aside  to  get  round  to  the  vestry,  I  heard  heavy  footsteps 
close  to  me.  The  servant  had  ascended  to  the  church  after  us.  "  I 
don't  mean  any  harm,"  he  said,  when  I  turned  round  on  him ;  "  I'm 
only  looking  for  my  master."  The  tones  in  which  he  spoke  be- 
trayed unmistakable  fear.     I  took  no  notice  of  him,  and  went  on. 

The  instant  I  turned  the  corner  and  came  in  view  of  the  vestry,  I 
saw  the  lantern  sky-light  on  the  roof  brilliantly  lit  up  from  within. 
It  shone  out  with  dazzling  brightness  against  the  murky,  starless  sky. 

I  hurried  through  the  church-vard  to  the  door. 


454  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

As  I  ^ot  near,  there  was  a  strange  smell  stealing  out  on  the  damp 
night  air.  I  heard  a  snapping  noise  inside — I  saw  the  light  above 
grow  brighter  and  brighter — a  pane  of  the  glass  cracked — I  ran  to 
the  door,  and  put  my  hand  on  it.     The  vestry  was  on  fire  I 

Before  I  could  move,  before  I  could  draw  my  breath  after  that 
discovery,  I  was  horror-struck  by  a  heavy  thump  against  the  door 
from  the  inside.  I  heard  the  key  worked  violently  in  the  lock — I 
heard  a  man's  voice  behind  the  door,  raised  to  a  dreadful  shrillness, 
screaming  for  help. 

The  servant,  who  had  followed  me,  staggered  back  shuddering, 
and  dropped  to  his  knees.  "  Oh,  my  God  !"  he  said  ;  "  it's  Sir  Per- 
cival !" 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips,  the  clerk  joined  us,  and  at  the  same 
moment  there  was  another,  and  a  last,  grating  turn  of  the  key  in 
the  lock. 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  his  soul !''  said  the  old  man.  "  He  is 
doomed  and  dead.     He  has  hampered  the  lock." 

I  rushed  to  the  door.  The  one  absorbing  purpose  that  had  filled 
all  my  thoughts,  that  had  controlled  all  my  actions,  for  weeks  and 
weeks  past,  vanished  in  an  instant  from  my  mind.  All  remembrance 
of  the  heartless  injury  the  man's  crimes  had  inflicted  ;  of  the  love, 
the  innocence,  the  happiness  he  had  pitilessly  laid  waste ;  of  the 
oath  I  had  sworn  in  my  own  heart  to  summon  him  to  the  terrible 
reckoning  that  he  deserved — passed  from  my  memory  like  a  dream. 
I  remembered  nothing  but  the  horror  of  his  situation.  I  felt  noth- 
ing but  the  natural  human  impulse  to  save  him  from  a  frightful 
death. 

"  Try  the  other  door !"  I  shouted.  "  Try  the  door  into  the  church ! 
The  lock's  hampered.  You're  a  dead  man  if  you  waste  another  mo- 
ment on  it !" 

There  had  been  no  renewed  cry  for  help  when  the  key  was  turn- 
ed for  the  last  time.  There  was  no  sound  now,  of  any  kind,  to  give 
token  that  he  was  still  alive.  I  heard  nothing  but  the  quickening 
crackle  of  the  flames,  and  the  sharp  snap  of  the  glass  in  the  sky-light 
above. 

I  looked  round  at  my  two  companions.  The  servant  had  risen  to 
his  feet :  he  had  taken  the  lantern,  and  was  holding  it  up  vacantly 
at  the  door.  Terror  seemed  to  have  struck  him  with  downright 
idiocy — he  waited  at  my  heels,  he  followed  me  about  when  I  moved, 
like  a  dog.  The  clerk  sat  crouched  up  on  one  of  the  tombstones, 
shivering,  and  moaning  to  himself.  The  one  moment  in  which 
I  looked  at  them  was  enough  to  show  me  that  they  were  both 
helpless. 

Hardly  knowing  what  I  did,  acting  desperately  on  tlic  first  im- 
pulse that  occurred  to  me,  I  seized  the  servant  and   pushed  him 


TUE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE.  455 

against  the  vestry  wall.  "  Stoop  I"  I  said,  '•  and  hold  by  the  stones, 
I  am  going  to  climb  over  you  to  the  roof — I  am  going  to  break  the 
sky-light,  and  give  him  some  air  I"' 

The  man  trembled  from  head  to  foot,  but  he  held  firm.  I  got  on 
his  back,  with  my  cudgel  in  my  mouth ;  seized  the  parapet  with 
both  hands  ;  and  was  instantly  on  the  roof  In  the  frantic  hurry 
and  agitation  of  the  moment,  it  never  struck  me  that  I  might  let  out 
the  flame  instead  of  letting  in  the  air,  I  struck  at  the  sky-light,  and 
battered  in  the  cracked,  loosened  glass  at  a  blow.  The  fire  leaped 
out  like  a  wild  beast  from  its  lair.  If  the  wind  had  not  chanced,  in 
the  position  I  occupied,  to  set  it  away  from  me,  my  exertions  might 
have  ended  then  and  there,  I  crouched  on  the  rcof  as  the  smoke 
poured  out  above  me  with  the  flame.  The  gleams  and  flashes"  of 
the  light  showed  me  the  servant's  face  staring  up  vacantly  under 
the  wall ;  the  clerk  risen  to  his  feet  on  the  tombstone,  wringing  his 
hands  in  despair  ;  and  the  scanty  population  of  the  village,  haggard 
men  and  terrified  women,  clustered  beyond  in  the  church-yard — all 
appearing  and  disappearing,  in  the  red  of  the  dreadful  glare,  in  the 
black  of  the  choking  smoke.  And  the  man  beneath  my  feet  I — the 
man,  suffocating,  burning,  dying,  so  near  us  all,  so  utterly  beyond 
our  reach  I 

The  thought  half  maddened  me.  I  lowered  myself  from  the  roof 
by  my  hands,  and  dropped  to  the  ground. 

'•  The  key  of  the  church  !"'  I  shouted  to  the  clerk.  "  We  must  try  it 
:  that  way — we  may  save  him  yet  if  we  can  burst  open  the  inner  door." 

"  No,  no,  no  !"  cried  the  old  man.  "  xso  hope  1  the  church  key  and 
the  vestry  key  are  on  the  same  ring — ^Ijoth  inside  there !  Oh,  sir, 
he's  past  saving — he's  dust  and  ashes  by  this  time  !"' 

"  They'll  see  the  fire  from  the  town,''  said  a  voice  from  among  the 
men  behind  me.  ''  There's  a  ingine  in  the  town.  They'll  save  the 
church." 

I  called  to  that  man — he  had  his  wits  about  him — I  called  to  him 
to  come  and  speak  to  me.  It  would  be  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  least 
before  the  town  engine  could  reach  us.  The  horror  of  remaining  in- 
active all  that  time  was  more  than  I  could  fice.  In  defiance  of  my 
own  reason,  I  persuaded  myself  that  the  doomed  and  lost  wretch  in 
the  vestry  might  still  be  lying  senseless  on  the  floor,  might  not  be 
dead  yet.  If  we  broke  open  the  door,  might  we  save  him  ?  I  knew 
the  strength  of  the  heavy  lock — I  knew  the  thickness  of  the  nailed 
oak — I  knew  the  hopelessness  of  assailing  the  one  and  the  other  by 
ordinary  means.  But  surely  there  were  beams  still  left  in  the  dis- 
mantled cottages  near  the  church  ?  What  if  we  got  one,  and  used 
it  as  a  battering-ram  against  the  door  ? 

The  thought  leaped  through  me,  like  the  fire  leaping  out  of  the 
shattered  sky-light.     I  appealed  to  the  man  who  had  spoken  first  of 


456  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

tlie  fire-engine  in  the  to^^Tl.  "  Have  you  got  your  pickaxes  handy  ^'^ 
Yes ;  they  had.  "  ^Vnd  a  hatchet,  and  a  saw,  and  a  bit  of  rope  ?" 
Yes!  yes!  yes!  I  ran  down  among  the  villagers,  with  the  lantern 
in  my  hand.  "  Five  shillings  apiece  to  every  man  who  helps  me  !" 
They  started  into  life  at  the  words.  That  ravenous  second  hunger 
/Of  poverty — the  hunger  for  money — roused  them  into  tumult  and 
activity  in  a  moment.  "  Two  of  you  for  more  lanterns,  if  you  have 
them  !  Two  of  you  for  the  pickaxes  and  the  tools !  The  rest  after 
me  to  find  the  beam  !''  They  cheered — with  shrill  stars^eling  voices 
they  cheered.  The  women  and  the  children  fled  back  on  either 
side.  We  rushed  in  a  body  down  the  church-yard  path  to  the  first 
empty  cottage.  Not  a  man  was  left  behind  but  the  clerk — the  poor 
old  clerk  standing  on  the  flat  tombstone  sobbing  and  wailing  over 
the  church.  The  servant  was  still  at  my  heels :  his  white,  helpless, 
panic-stricken  face  was  close  over  my  shoulder  as  we  pushed  into 
the  cottage.  There  were  rafters  from  the  torn-down  floor  above  ly- 
ing loose  on  the  ground,  but  they  were  too  light.  A  beam  ran  across 
over  our  heads,  but  not  out  of  reach  of  our  arms  and  our  pickaxes — 
a  beam  fast  at  each  end  in  the  ruined  wall,  with  ceiling  and  flooring 
all  ripped  away,  and  a  great  gap  in  the  roof  above,  open  to  the  sky. 
Vie  attacked  the  beam  at  both  ends  at  once.  God  !  how  it  held — 
how  the  brick  and  mortar  of  the  wall  resisted  us !  We  struck,  and 
tugged,  and  tore.  The  beam  gave  at  one  end — it  came  down  with 
a  lump  of  brick-work  after  it.  There  was  a  scream  from  the  women, 
all  huddled  in  the  door-way  to  look  at  us — a  shout  from  the  men — 
two  of  them  down,  but  not  hurt.  Another  tug  all  together — and  the 
beam  was  loose  at  both  ends.  We  raised  it,  and  gave  the  word  to 
clear  the  door-way.  Now  for  the  work !  now  for  the  rush  at  the 
door !  There  is  the  fire  streaming  into  the  sky,  streaming  brighter 
than  ever  to  light  us  !  Steady,  along  the  church-yard  path — steady 
with  the  beam,  for  a  rush  at  th«  door.  One,  two,  three  —  and  off. 
Out  rings  the  cheering  again,  irrepressibly.  We  have  shaken  it  al- 
ready ;  the  hinges  must  give,  if  the  lock  won't.  Another  run  with 
the  beam !  One,  two,  three — and  off.  It's  loose  !  the  stealthy  fire 
darts  at  us  through  the  crevice  all  round  it.  Another,  and  a  last 
rush  !  The  door  falls  in  with  a  crash.  A  great  hush  of  awe,  a  still- 
ness of  breathless  expectation,  possesses  every  living  soul  of  us.  We 
look  for  the  body.  The  scorching  heat  on  our  faces  drives  us  back  : 
we  see  nothing — above,  below,  all  through  the  room,  we  see  nothing 
but  a  sheet  of  living  fire. 

"Wliere  is  he?''  whis2)ered  the  servant,  staring  vacantly  at  the 
flames. 

"  He's  dust  and  ashes,"  said  the  clerk.  "  And  the  books  are  dust 
and  ashes— and  oh,  sirs!  the  church  will  ]>e  dust  and  ashes  soon." 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITE.  457 

Those  were  the  only  two  who  spoke.  When  they  were  silent 
again,  nothing  stirred  in  the  stillness  but  the  bubble  and  the  crackle 
of  the  flames. 

Hark ! 

A  harsh  rattling  sound  in  the  distance— then  the  hollow  beat  of 
horses'  hoofs  at  full  gallop — then  the  low  roar,  the  all-predominant 
tumult  of  hundreds  of  human  voices  clamoring  and  shouting  to- 
gether.    The  engine  at  last ! 

The  people  about  me  all  turned  from  the  fire,  and  ran  eagerly  to 
the  brow  of  the  hill.  Tlie  old  clerk  tried  to  go  with  the  rest ;  "^but 
his  strength  was  exhausted.  I  saw  him  holding  by  one  of  the  tomb- 
stones. "  Save  the  church  I'"*  he  cried  out,  fliintly,  as  if  the  firemen 
could  hear  him  already.     "  Save  the  church  1^' 

The  only  man  who  never  moved  was  the  servant.  There  he  stood, 
his  eyes  still  fastened  on  the  flames  in  a  changeless,  vacant  stare.  I 
spoke  to  him,  I  shook  him  by  the  arm.  He  was  past  rousing.  He 
only  whispered  once  more,  "  Where  is  he  V 

In  ten  minutes  the  engine  was  in  position ;  the  well  at  the  back 
of  the  church  was  feeding  it;  and  tlie  hose  was  carried  to  the  door- 
way of  the  vestry.  If  help  had  been  wanted  from  me,  I  could  not 
have  afforded  it  now.  My  energy  of  will  was  gone — my  strength 
was  exhausted — the  turmoil  of  my  thoughts  was  fearfully  and  sud- 
denly stilled,  now  I  knew  that  he  was  dead.  I  stood  useless  and 
helpless — looking,  looking,  looking  into  the  burning  room. 

I  saw  the  fire  slowly  conquered.  The  brightness  of  the  glare 
faded — the  steam  rose  in  white  clouds,  and  the  smouldering  heaps 
of  embers  showed  red  and  black  through  it  on  the  floor.  There  was 
a  pause — then  an  advance  altogether  of  the  firemen  and  the  jwlice, 
which  blocked  up  the  door-way — then  a  consultation  in  low  voices 
— and  then  two  men  were  detached  from  the  rest,  and  sent  out  of 
the  church-yard  through  the  crowd.  The  crowd  drew  back  on 
either  side,  in  dead  silence,  to  let  them  jDass. 

After  a  while,  a  great  shudder  ran  through  the  people ;  and  the 
living  lane  widened  slowly.  The  men  came  back  along  it,  with  a 
door  from  one  of  the  empty  houses.  They  carried  it  to  the  vestry, 
and  went  in.  The  police  closed  again  round  the  door-way;  and 
men  stole  out  from  among  the  crowd  by  twos  and  threes,  and  stood 
behind  them,  to  be  the  first  to  see.  Others  waited  near,  to  be  the 
first  to  hear.     Women  and  children  were  among  these  last. 

The  tidings  from  the  ve.  .xy  began  to  flow  out  among  the  crowd 
— they  dropped  slowly  from  mouth  to  mouth,  till  they  reached  the 
place  where  I  was  standhig.  I  heard  the  questions  and  answers  re- 
peated again  and  again  in  low,  eager  tones,  all  round  me, 

"Have  they  found  him?"  '' Yes."— "  Where  ?"  "Against  the 
door ;  on  his  face,"—"  Which  door  ?"    "  The  door  that  goes  into  the 

20 


458  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE, 

churcli.  His  head  was  against  it ;  he  was  down  on  his  face." — "  Is 
his  face  burned  ?"  "  No."  "  Yes,  it  is."  "  No ;  scorched,  not  burn- 
ed ;  he  lay  on  his  face,  I  tell  you." — "  Who  was  he  ?  A  lord,  they 
say."  "  No,  not  a  lord.  Sir  Something;  Sir  means  Knight."  "And 
Baronight,  too."  "  No."  "  Yes,  it  does." — "  What  did  he  want  in 
there  ?"  "  No  good,  you  may  depend  on  it." — "  Did  he  do  it  on 
purpose?" — "Bum  himself  on  purpose  1" — "I  don't  mean  himself; 
I  mean  the  yestry," — "  Is  he  dreadful  to  look  at  ?"  "  Dreadful !" — 
"Not  about  the  face,  though?"  "No,  no;  not  so  much  about  the 
face."  —  "Don't  any  body  know  him?"  "There's  a  man  says  he 
does." — "Who?"  "A  servant,  they  say.  But  he's  struck  stupid- 
like, and  the  police  don't  believe  him." — "  Don't  any  body  else  know 
who  it  is?"     "Hush— 1" 

The  loud,  clear  voice  of  a  man  in  authority  silenced  the  low  hum 
of  talking  all  round  me  in  an  instant. 

"  Where  is  the  gentleman  who  tried  to  save  him  ?"  said  the  voice. 

"  Here,  sir — here  he  is  I"  Dozens  of  eager  faces  pressed  about  me 
— dozens  of  eager  arms  parted  the  crowd.  The  man  in  authority 
came  up  to  me  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand. 

"This  way,  sir,  if  you  please,"  he  said,  quietly. 

I  was  unable  to  speak  to  him ;  I  was  unable  to  resist  him  when 
he  took  my  arm.  I  tried  to  say  that  I  had  never  seen  the  dead  man 
in  his  lifetime — that  there  was  no  hope  of  identifying  him  by  means 
of  a  stranger  like  me.  But  the  words  failed  on  my  lips.  I  was 
faint  and  silent  and  helpless. 

"  Do  you  know  him,  sir?" 

I  was  standing  inside  a  circle  of  men.  Three  of  them,  opjiosite 
to  me,  were  holding  lanterns  low  down  to  the  ground.  Their  eyes, 
and  the  eyes  of  all  the  rest,  were  fixed  silently  and  expectantly  on 
my  face.  I  knew  what  was  at  my  feet — I  knew  why  they  were 
holding  the  lanterns  so  low  to  the  ground. 

"  Can  you  identify  him,  sir  ?" 

My  eyes  droj^ped  slowly.  At  first  I  saw  nothing  under  them  but 
a  coarse  canvas  cloth.  The  dripping  of  the  rain  on  it  was  audible 
in  the  dreadful  silence.  I  looked  up  along  the  cloth ;  and  there  at 
the  end,  stark  and  grim  and  black,  in  the  yellow  light — there  was 
his  dead  face. 

So,  for  the  first  and  last  time,  I  saw  him.  So  the  Visitation  of 
God  ruled  it  that  he  and  I  should  meet. 

XI. 

The  inquest  was  hurried,  for  certain  local  reasons  which  weighed 
with  the  coroner  and  the  town  authorities.  It  was  held  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  next  day.  I  was,  necessarily,  one  among  the  wit- 
nesses summoned  to  assist  the  objects  of  the  invcstig.itiou. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  459 

My  first  proceeding  in  the  morning  was  to  go  to  the  post-ofFicc 
and  inquire  for  the  letter  which  I  expected  from  Marian.  No  change 
of  circumstances,  however  extraordinary,  coukl  affect  the  one  great 
anxiety  which  weighed  on  my  mind  while  I  was  away  from  London, 
The  morning's  letter,  which  was  the  only  assurance  I  could  receive 
that  no  misfortune  had  happened  in  my  absence,  was  still  the  ab- 
sorbing interest  with  which  my  day  began. 

To  my  relief,  the  letter  from  Marian  was  at  the  office  waiting 
for  me. 

Nothing  had  happened— they  were  both  as  safe  and  as  well  as 
when  I  had  left  them.  Laura  sent  her  love,  and  begged  that  I 
would  let  her  know  of  my  return  a  day  beforehand.  Her  sister 
added,  in  explanation  of  this  message,  that  she  had  saved  ''  nearly  a 
sovereign  "  out  of  her  own  private  purse,  and  that  she  had  claimed 
the  privilege  of  ordering  the  dinner  and  giving  the  dinner  v>'hich 
was  to  celebrate  the  day  of  my  return.  I  read  these  little  domestic 
confidences,  in  the  bnght  morning,  with  the  terrible  recollection  of 
what  had  happened  the  evening  before  vivid  in  my  memory.  The 
necessity  of  sparing  Laura  any  sudden  knowledge  of  the  truth  was 
the  first  consideration  which  the  letter  suggested  to  me.  I  wrote  at 
once  to  Marian,  to  tell  her  what  I  have  told  in  these  pages ;  pre- 
senting the  tidings  as  gradually  and  gently  as  I  could,  and  warning 
her  not  to  let  any  such  thing  as  a  newspaper  fall  in  Laura's  way 
while  I  was  absent.  In  the  case  of  any  other  woman  less  cour- 
ageous and  less  reliable,  I  might  have  hesitated  before  I  ventured  on 
unreservedly  disclosing  the  whole  truth.  But  I  owed  it  to  Marian 
to  be  faithful  to  my  past  experience  of  her,  and  to  trust  her  as  I 
trusted  myself. 

My  letter  was  necessarily  a  long  one.  It  occupied  me  until  the 
time  came  for  proceeding  to  the  inquest. 

The  objects  of  the  legal  inquiry  were  necessarily  beset  by  peculiar 
complications  and  diftlculties.  Besides  the  investigation  into  the 
manner  in  which  the  deceased  had  met  his  death,  there  were  serious 
questions  to  be  settled  relating  to  the  cause  of  the  fire,  to  the  ab- 
straction of  the  keys,  and  to  the  presence  of  a  stranger  in  the  vestry 
at  the  time  when  the  flames  broke  out.  Even  the  identification  of 
the  dead  man  had  not  yet  been  accomplished.  The  helpless  condi- 
tion of  the  servant  had  made  the  police  distrustful  of  his  asserted 
recognition  of  his  master.  They  had  sent  to  Knowlesbury  over- 
night to  secure  the  attendance  of  witnesses  who  v/ere  well  acquaint- 
ed with  the  personal  appearance  of  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  and  they 
had  communicated,  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  with  Blackwater 
Park.  These  precautions  enabled  the  coroner  and  jury  to  settle  the 
question  of  identity,  and  to  confirm  the  correctness  of  the  servant's 
assertion ;  the  evidence  ofiered  ])y  competent  witnesses,  and  Ijy  the 


460  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

discovery  of  certain  facts,  being  subsequently  strengtliened  In'  an 
examination  of  the  dead  man's  watch.  The  crest  and  the  name  of 
Sir  Percival  Glyde  were  engraved  inside  it. 

The  next  inquiries  rehited  to  the  fire. 

The  servant  and  I,  and  the  boy  who  had  heard  the  light  struck 
in  the  vestry,  were  the  first  witnesses  called.  The  boy  gave  his  evi- 
dence clearly  enough  ;  but  the  servant's  mind  had  not  yet  recovered 
the  shock  inflicted  on  it — he  was  plainly  incapable  of  assisting  the 
objects  of  the  inquiry,  and  he  was  desired  to  stand  down. 

To  my  own  relief,  my  examination  was  not  a  long  one.  I  had 
not  known  the  deceased ;  I  had  never  seen  him ;  I  was  not  aware 
of  his  presence  at  Old  Welmingham ;  and  I  had  not  been  in  the  ves- 
try at  the  finding  of  the  body.  All  I  could  prove  was  that  I  had 
stopped  at  the  clerk's  cottage  to  ask  my  way  ;  that  I  had  heard  from 
him  of  the  loss  of  the  kej-^s ;  that  I  had  accompanied  him  to  the 
church  to  render  what  help  I  could ;  that  I  had  seen  the  fire ;  that 
I  had  heard  some  person  unknown,  inside  the  vestry,  trying  vainly 
to  unlock  the  door ;  and  that  I  had  done  what  I  could,  from  motives 
of  humanity,  to  save  the  man.  Other  witnesses,  who  had  been  ac- 
quainted with  the  deceased,  were  asked  if  they  could  explain  the 
mystery  of  his  presumed  abstraction  of  the  keys,  and  his  presence  in 
the  burning  room.  But  the  coroner  seemed  to  take  it  for  granted, 
naturally  enough,  that  I,  as  a  total  stranger  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  a  total  stranger  to  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  could  not  be  in  a  position 
to  ofltr  any  evidence  on  these  two  points. 

The  course  that  I  was  myself  bound  to  take,  v,-hcn  my  fonnal  ex- 
amination had  closed,  seemed  clear  to  me.  I  did  not  feel  called  on 
to  volunteer  any  statement  of  my  own  private  convictions ;  in  the 
first  place,  because  my  doing  so  could  serve  no  practical  purpose, 
novr  that  all  proof  in  support  of  any  surmises  of  mine  was  burned 
with  the  burned  register ;  in  the  second  place,  because  I  could  not 
have  intelligibly  stated  my  opinion — my  unsupported  opinion — 
without  disclosing  the  whole  story  of  the  conspiracy;  and  producing, 
beyond  a  doubt,  the  same  unsatisfoctory  effect  on  the  minds  of  the 
coroner  and  the  jury  which  I  had  already  produced  on  the  mind  of 
Mr.  Kyrle. 

In  these  pages,  liowever,  and  after  the  time  that  has  now  elapsed, 
no  such  cautions  and  restraints  as  are  here  described  need  fetter  the 
free  expression  of  my  opinion.  I  will  state  briefly,  before  my  pen 
occupies  itself  with  other  events,  how  my  own  convictions  lead  me 
to  account  for  the  abstraction  of  the  keys,  for  the  outbreak  of  the 
fire,  and  for  the  death  of  the  man. 

The  news  of  my  being  free  on  bail  drove  Sir  Percival,  as  I  believe, 
to  his  last  resources.  The  attempted  attack  on  the  road  was  one  of 
those  resources;  ajid  the  suppression  of  all  practical  ])roof  of  liia 


THE    WOMAN   IX   WHITE.  461 

crime,  by  destroying  the  page  of  the  register  on  wliich  the  forgery 
had  been  committed,  was  the  other,  and  the  surest  of  the  two.  If  I 
could  produce  no  extract  from  the  original  book,  to  compare  with 
the  certified  copy  at  Knowlesbury,  I  could  produce  no  positive  evi- 
dence, and  could  threaten  him  with  no  fatal  exposure.  All  that 
was  necessary  to  the  attainment  of  his  end  was,  that  he  should  get 
into  the  vestry  unperceived,  that  he  should  tear  out  the  page  in  the 
register,  and  that  he  should  leave  the  vestry  again  as  privately  as  he 
had  entered  it. 

On  this  supposition,  it  is  easy  to  understand  why  he  waited  until 
nightfall  before  he  made  the  attempt,  and  why  he  took  advantage 
of  the  clerk's  absence  to  possess  himself  of  the  keys.  Necessity 
would  oblige  him  to  strike  a  light  to  find  his  way  to  tlie  right  regis- 
ter ;  and  common  caution  would  suggest  his  locking  the  door  on 
the  inside  in  case  of  intrusion  on  the  part  of  any  inquisitive  stran- 
ger, or  on  my  part,  if  I  happened  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  at  the 
time. 

I  can  not  believe  that  it  was  any  part  of  his  intention  to  make  the 
destruction  of  the  register  appear  to  be  the  result  of  accident,  by 
purposely  setting  the  vestry  on  fire.  The  bare  chance  that  prompt 
assistance  might  arrive,  and  that  the  books  miglit,  by  the  remotest 
possibility,  be  saved,  would  have  been  enough,  on  a  moment's  con- 
sideration, to  dismiss  any  idea  of  this  sort  from  his  mind.  Remem- 
bering the  quantity  of  combustible  objects  in  the  vestry — the  straw, 
the  papers,  the  packing-cases,  the  dry  wood,  the  old  worm-eaten 
presses — all  the  probabilities,  in  my  estimation,  point  to  the  fire  as 
the  result  of  an  accident  with  his  matches  or  his  light. 

His  first  impulse,  under  these  circumstances,  was  doubtless  to  try 
to  extinguish  the  flames — and,  fiiiling  in  that,  his  second  impulse 
(ignorant  as  he  was  of  the  state  of  the  lock)  had  been  to  attempt  to 
escape  l)y  the  door  which  had  given  him  entrance.  When  I  had 
called  to  him  the  flames  must  have  reached  across  the  door  leading 
into  the  church,  on  either  side  of  which  the  presses  extended,  and 
close  to  which  the  other  combustible  objects  w^ere  placed.  In  all 
probability,  the  smoke  and  flame  (confined  as  they  were  to  the 
room)  had  been  too  much  for  him  when  he  tried  to  escape  by  the 
inner  door.  He  must  have  dropped  in  his  death-swoon — he  must 
have  sunk  in  the  place  where  he  was  found — just  as  I  got  on  the 
roof  to  break  the  sky-light  window.  Even  if  we  had  been  able  af- 
terward to  get  into  the  church,  and  to  burst  open  the  door  from 
that  side,  the  delay  must  have  been  fatal.  He  would  have  been 
past  saving,  long  past  saving,  by  that  time.  We  should  only  have 
given  the  flames  free  ingress  into  the  church — the  church,  which 
was  now  preserved,  but  which,  in  that  event,  would  have  shared  the 
fate  of  the  vestry.    There  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind — there  can  be  no 


462  TIIK    AVOMAX    IN^    WHITE. 

doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  one — that  he  was  a  dead  man  before  ever 
we  got  to  the  empty  cottage  and  worked  with  might  and  main  to 
tear  down  the  beam. 

This  is  the  nearest  approach  tliat  any  theory  of  mine  can  make 
toward  accounting  for  a  result  whicli  was  visible  matter  of  fact.  As 
I  have  described  them,  so  events  i)assed  to  us  outside.  As  I  have 
related  it,  so  his  body  was  found. 

The  inquest  was  adjourned  over  one  day ;  no  explanation  that  thfe 
eye  of  the  law  could  recognize  having  been  discovered  thus  far  to 
account  for  the  mysterious  circumstances  of  the  case. 

It  was  arranged  tliat  more  witnesses  should  be  summoned,  and 
that  the  London  solicitor  of  the  deceased  should  be  invited  to  at- 
tend. A  medical  man  was  also  charged  with  the  duty  of  reporting 
on  the  mental  condition  of  the  servant,  which  appeared  at  present 
to  debar  him  from  giving  any  evidence  of  the  least  importance. 
He  could  only  declare,  in  a  dazed  way,  that  he  had  been  ordered, 
on  the  night  of  the  fire,  to  wait  in  the  lane,  and  that  he  knew  noth- 
ing  else,  except  that  the  deceased  was  certainly  his  master. 

My  own  impression  was  that  he  had  been  first  used  (without  any 
guilty  knowledge  on  his  own  part)  to  ascertain  the  fact  of  the 
clerk's  absence  from  home  on  the  previous  day;  and  that  he  had 
been  afterward  ordered  to  wait  near  the  church  (but  out  of  sight 
of  the  vestry)  to  assist  his  master,  in  the  event  of  my  escaping  the 
attack  on  the  road,  and  of  a  collision  occurring  between  Sir  Perci- 
val  and  myself  It  is  necessaiy  to  add  that  the  man's  own  testimo- 
ny was  never  obtained  to  confirm  this  view.  The  medical  report 
of  him  declared  that  what  little  mental  faculty  he  possessed  was  se- 
riously shaken ;  nothing  satisfactory  was  extracted  from  him  at  the 
adjourned  inquest ;  and,  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary,  he  may 
never  have  recovered  to  this  day. 

I  returned  to  the  hotel  at  Welmingham,  so  jaded  in  body  and 
mind,  so  weakened  and  depressed  by  all  that  I  had  gone  through, 
as  to  be  quite  unfit  to  endure  the  local  gossip  about  the  inquest, 
and  to  answer  the  trivial  questions  that  the  talkers  addressed  to 
me  in  the  cofice-room.  I  withdrew  from  my  scanty  dinner  to  my 
cheap  garret-chamber  to  secure  myself  a  little  quiet,  and  to  think, 
undisturbed,  of  Laura  and  Marian. 

If  I  had  been  a  richer  man  I  would  have  gone  back  to  London, 
and  would  have  comforted  myself  with  a  sight  of  the  two  dear 
faces  again,  that  night.  But  I  was  bound  to  appear,  if  called  on,  at 
the  adjourned  inquest,  and  doubly  bound  to  answer  my  bail  before 
the  magistrate  at  Knowlesbury.  Our  slender  resources  had  sufiered 
already ;  and  the  doubtful  future — more  doubtful  than  ever  now — 
made  me  dread  decreasing  our  means  unnecessarily  by  allowing  my- 


THE    WOMAN    IX    "WHITE.  463 

self  an  indulgence,  even  at  the  small  cost  of  a  double  railway  journey 
in  the  carriages  of  the  second  class. 

The  next  day — the  day  immediately  following  the  inquest — was 
left  at  my  own  disposal.  I  began  the  morning  by  again  ajjplying  at 
the  post-office  for  my  regular  report  from  Marian.  It  was  waiting 
for  me,  as  before,  and  it  was  written  throughout  in  good  spirits,  i 
read  the  letter  thankfully ;  and  then  set  forth,  with  my  mind  at  ease 
for  the  day,  to  go  to  Old  Welmingham,  and  to  view  the  scene  of  tlie 
tire  by  the  morning  light. 

What  changes  met  me  when  I  got  there ! 

Through  all  the  ways  of  our  unintelligible  world  the  trivial  and 
the  ten-ible  walk  hand  in  hand  together.  The  irony  of  circum- 
stances holds  no  mortal  catastrophe  in  respect.  When  I  reached 
the  church  the  trampled  condition  of  the  burial-ground  was  the 
only  serious  trace  left  to  tell  of  the  fire  and  the  death.  A  rough 
hoarding  of  boards  had  been  knocked  up  before  the  vestry  door- . 
way.  Rude  caricatures  were  scrawled  on  it  already ;  and  the  vil- 
lage children  were  fighting  and  shouting  for  the  possession  of  the 
best  peep-hole  to  see  through.  On  the  spot  where  I  had  heard  the 
cry  for  help  from  the  burning  room,  on  the  spot  where  the  panic- 
stricken  servant  had  dropped  on  his  knees,  a  tiLssy  flock  of  poultry 
was  now  scrambling  for  the  first  choice  of  worms  after  the  rain — 
and  on  the  ground  at  my  feet,  where  the  door  and  its  dreadful  bur- 
den had  been  laid,  a  workman's  dinner  was  waiting  for  him,  tied  up 
in  a  yellow  basin,  and  his  faithful  cur  in  charge  was  yelping  at  me 
for  coming  near  the  food.  The  old  clerk,  looking  idly  at  the  slow 
commencement  of  the  repairs,  had  only  one  interest  that  he  could 
talk  about  now — the  interest  of  escaping  all  blame,  for  his  own  part, 
on  account  of  the  accident  that  had  happened.  One  of  the  village 
women,  whose  white,  wild  face  I  remembered,  the  picture  of  terror, 
when  we  pulled  down  the  beam,  was  giggling  with  another  woman, 
the  picture  of  inanity,  over  an  old  washing-tub.  There  is  nothing 
serious  in  mortality !  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory,  was  Solomon  with 
the  elements  of  the  contemptible  lurking  in  every  fold  of  his  robes 
and  in  every  corner  of  his  palace. 

As  I  left  the  place  my  thoughts  turned,  not  for  the  first  time,  to 
the  complete  overthrow  that  all  present  hope  of  establishing  Lau- 
ra's identity  had  now  suffered  through  Sir  Percival's  death.  He 
was  gone — and,  with  him,  the  chance  was  gone  which  had  been  the 
one  object  of  all  my  labors  and  all  my  hopes. 

Could  I  look  at  my  failure  from  no  truer  point  of  view^  than  this  ? 

Suppose  he  had  lived — would  that  change  of  circumstance  have 
altered  the  result  ?  Could  I  have  made  my  discover}^  a  marketable 
commodity,  even  for  Laura's  sake,  after  I  had  found  out  that  rob- 
bery of  the  rights  of  others  was  the  essence  of  Sir  Percival's  crime  ? 


464  THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Could  I  have  offered  the  price  of  my  silence  for  Jiis  confession  of  the 
conspiracy,  when  the  effect  of  that  silence  must  have  been  to  keep 
the  right  heir  from  the  estates,  and  the  right  owner  from  the  name  ? 
Impossible  I  If  Sir  Percival  had  lived,  the  discovery,  from  which 
(in  my  ignorance  of  the  true  nature  of  the  Secret)  I  had  hoped  so 
much,  could  not  have  been  mine  to  suppress  or  to  make  public,  as 
I  thought  best,  for  the  vindication  of  Laura's  rights.  In  common 
honesty  and  common  honor,  I  must  have  gone  at  once  to  the  stran- 
ger whose  birthright  had  been  usurped — I  must  have  renounced  the 
victory  at  the  moment  when  it  was  mine,  by  placing  my  discovery 
imreservedly  in  that  stranger's  hands,  and  I  must  have  faced  afresh 
all  the  difficulties  which  stood  between  me  and  the  one  object  of 
my  life,  exactly  as  I  was  resolved,  in  my  heart  of  hearts,  to  face 
them  now  1 

I  returned  to  Welmingham  with  my  mind  composed;  feeling 
more  sure  of  myself  and  my  resolution  than  I  had  felt  yet. 

On  my  way  to  the  hotel  I  passed  the  end  of  the  square  in  which 
Mrs.  Catherick  lived.  Should  I  go  back  to  the  house,  and  make  an- 
other attempt  to  see  her  ?  No.  That  news  of  Sir  Percival's  death, 
which  was  the  last  news  she  ever  expected  to  hear,  must  have  reach- 
ed her  hours  since.  All  the  proceedings  at  the  inquest  had  been  re- 
ported in  the  local  paper  that  morning :  there  was  nothing  I  could 
tell  her  which  she  did  not  know  already.  My  interest  in  making 
her  speak  had  slackened.  I  remembered  the  furtive  hatred  in  her 
face  when  she  said,  "  There  is  no  news  of  Sir  Percival  that  I  don't 
expect — except  the  news  of  his  death.*'  I  remembered  the  stealthy 
interest  in  her  eyes  when  they  settled  on  me  at  parting,  after  she 
h.ad  spoken  those  words.  Some  instinct,  deep  in  my  heart,  which  I 
felt  to  be  a  true  one,  made  the  prospect  of  again  entering  her  presr- 
ence  repulsive  to  me — I  turned  away  from  the  square,  and  went 
straight  back  to  the  hotel. 

Some  hours  later,  while  I  was  resting  in  the  coffee-room,  a  letter 
was  placed  in  my  hands  by  the  waiter.  It  was  addressed  to  me  by 
name ;  and  I  found,  on  inquiry,  that  it  had  been  left  at  the  bar  by  a 
woman  just  as  it  was  near  dusk,  and  just  before  the  gas  was  lighted. 
She  had  said  nothing ;  and  she  had  gone  away  again  before  there 
was  time  to  speak  to  her,  or  even  to  notice  who  she  was. 

I  opened  the  letter.  It  was  neither  dated  nor  signed,  and  the 
liandwriting  was  palpably  disguised.  Before  I  had  read  the  first 
sentence,  however,  I  knew  who  my  correspondent  was.  Mrs.  Cath- 
erick. 

The  letter  ran  as  follows — I  copy  it  exactly,  word  for  word: 


TUE    WOMxVN    IN    WHITE.  465 


The  Story  continued  by  Mrs.  Catiierick. 

Sir, — You  have  not  come  back,  as  you  said  you  would.  No  mat- 
ter ;  I  know  tlie  news,  and  I  write  to  tell  you  so.  Did  you  see  any 
thing  2)articular  in  my  face  when  you  left  me  ?  I  w^as  w^ondering, 
in  my  own  mind,  whether  the  day  of  his  downfall  had  come  at  last, 
and  whether  you  were  the  chosen  instrument  for  working  it.  You 
were — and  you  have  worked  it. 

You  were  weak  enougli,  as  I  have  heard,  to  try  and  save  his  life. 
If  you  had  succeeded,  I  should  have  looked  upon  you  as  my  enemy. 
Now  you  have  failed,  I  hold  you  as  my  friend.  Your  inquiries 
frightened  him  into  the  vestry  by  night ;  your  inquiries,  without 
your  privity  and  against  your  will,  have  served  the  hatred  and 
wreaked  the  vengeance  of  three-and-twenty  years.  Thank  you,  sir, 
in  spite  of  yourself. 

I  owe  something  to  the  man  who  has  done  this.  How  can  I  pay 
my  debt  ?  If  I  was  a  young  woman  still,  I  might  say,  "  Come  !  put 
your  arm  round  my  w^aist,  and  kiss  me,  if  you  like."  I  should  havg 
been  fond  enough  of  you,  even  to  go  that  length ;  and  you  would 
have  accepted  my  invitation — you  would,  sir,  twenty  years  ago! 
But  I  am  an  old  woman  now.  Well !  I  can  satisfy  your  curiosity, 
and  pay  my  debt  in  that  way.  You  had  a  great  curiosity  to  know 
certain  private  affairs  of  mine,  when  you  came  to  see  me — private 
affairs  which  all  your  sharpness  could  not  look  into  without  my 
lielp  —  private  affairs  which  you  have  not  discovered  even  now. 
You  shall  discover  them;  your  curiosity  shall  be  satisfied.  I  will 
take  any  trouble  to  please  you,  my  estimable  young  friend  ! 

You  were  a  little  boy,  I  suppose,  in  the  year  twenty-seven  ?  I 
was  a  handsome  young  woman  at  that  time,  living  at  Old  Welming- 
ham.  I  had  a  contemptible  fool  for  a  husband.  I  had  also  the 
honor  of  being  acquainted  (never  mind  how)  with  a  certain  gentle- 
man (never  mind  whom).  I  shall  not  call  him  by  his  name.  Why 
should  I  ?  It  was  not  his  own.  He  never  had  a  name  :  you  know 
that,  by  this  time,  as  well  as  I  do. 

It  will  be  more  to  the  purpose  to  tell  you  how  he  worked  himself 
into  my  good  graces.  I  was  bom  with  the  tastes  of  a  lady,  and  he 
gratified  them.  In  other  words,  he  admired  me,  and  he  made  me 
presents.  No  woman  can  resist  admiration  and  presents — especial- 
ly presents,  provided  they  happen  to  be  just  the  things  she  wants. 
He  was  sharp  enough  to  know  that^most  men  are.  Naturally,  he 
w^anted  something  in  return — all  men  do.  And  what  do  you  think 
was  the  something  ?  The  merest  trifle.  Nothing  but  the  key  of 
tlie  vestry,  and  the  key  of  the  press  inside  it,  when  my  husband's 
back  was  turned.     Of  course  he  lied  when  I  asked  him  why  he 

20* 


46G  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

wished  mc  to  get  liiin  the  keys  in  that  private  way.  He  might 
have  saved  himself  the  trouble — I  didn't  believe  him.  But  I  liked 
my  presents,  and  I  wanted  more.  So  I  got  him  the  keys,  without 
my  husl)and's  knowledge  ;  and  I  watched  him,  without  his  owm 
knowledge.  Once,  twice,  four  times,  I  watched  him,  and  the  fourth 
time  I  found  him  out. 

I  was  never  overscrupulous  where  other  people's  affairs  were  con- 
cerned ;  and  I  W'as  not  overscrupulous  about  his  adding  one  to  the 
marriages  in  the  register,  on  his  own  account. 

Of  course,  I  knew  it  was  wrong;  but  it  did  no  harm  to  me — 
which  was  one  good  reason  for  not  making  a  fuss  about  it.  And  I 
had  not  got  a  gold  watch  and  chain — w'hicli  was  another,  still  bet- 
ter. And  he  had  promised  me  one  from  London  only  the  day  be- 
fore— which  was  a  third,  best  of  all.  If  I  had  known  what  the  law 
considered  the  crime  to  be,  and  how  the  law  punished  it,  I  should 
liave  taken  proper  care  of  myself,  and  have  exposed  him  then  and 
there.  But  I  knew  nothing,  and  I  longed  for  the  gold  watch.  All 
the  conditions  I  insisted  on  w^ere  that  he  should  take  me  into  his 
confidence  and  tell  me  every  thing.  I  was  as  curious  about  his 
affairs  then,  as  you  are  about  mine  now.  He  granted  my  conditions 
— why,  you  will  see  presently. 

This,  put  in  short,  is  what  I  heard  fi'om  him.  He  did  not  will- 
ingly tell  me  all  that  I  tell  you  here.  I  drew  some  of  it  from  him 
by  persuasion  and  some  of  it  by  questions.  I  w^as  determined  to 
have  all  the  trath,  and  I  believe  I  got  it. 

He  knew  no  more  than  any  one  else  of  what  the  state  of  things 
really  was  between  his  father  and  mother,  till  after  his  mother's 
death.  Then,  his  father  confessed  it,  and  promised  to  do  what  he 
could  for  his  son.  He  died  having  done  nothing — not  having  even 
made  a  will.  The  son  (who  can  blame  him  ?)  wisely  provided  for 
himself.  He  came  to  England  at  once,  and  took  possession  of  the 
property.  Tliere  was  no  one  to  suspect  him,  and  no  one  to  say  him 
nay.  His  father  and  mother  had  always  lived  as  man  and  wdfe — 
none  of  the  few"  people  who  were  acquainted  with  them  ever  sup- 
posed them  to  be  any  thing  else.  The  right  person  to  claim  the 
property  (if  the  truth  had  been  known)  was  a  distant  relation,  who 
had  no  idea  of  ever  getting  it,  and  wdio  was  away  at  sea  when  his 
father  died.  He  had  no  difficulty,  so  far — he  took  possession,  as  a 
matter  of  course.  But  he  could  not  borrow  money  on  the  property 
as  a  matter  of  course.  There  were  two  things  w\anted  of  him,  be- 
fore he  could  do  this.  One  was  a  certificate  of  his  birth,  and  the 
other  was  a  certificate  of  his  parents'  marriage.  The  certificate  of 
his  birth  was  easily  got — he  was  born  abroad,  and  the  certificate 
was  there  in  due  form.  The  other  matter  was  a  difficulty — and 
that  difficulty  brought  him  to  Old  Welmingham.. 


THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE.  467 

But  for  one  consideration,  he  miglit  liave  gone  to  Knowlesbury 
instead. 

His  motlier  had  l^een  living  there  just  before  she  met  with  his  fa- 
ther— living  under  her  maiden  name ;  the  truth  being  that  she  was 
really  a  married  woman ;  married  in  Ireland,  where  her  husband  had 
ill-used  her,  and  had  afterward  gone  off  with  some  other  person.  I 
give  you  this  fact  on  good  authority :  Sir  Felix  mentioned  it  to  his 
son,  as  the  reason  why  he  had  not  married.  You  may  wonder  why 
the  son,  knowing  that  his  parents  had  met  each  other  at  Knowles- 
bury, did  not  play  his  first  tricks  with  the  register  of  that  church, 
where  it  might  have  been  fairly  presumed  his  father  and  mother 
were  married.  The  reason  was,  that  the  clergyman  who  did  duty 
at  Knowlesbury  Church,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  three 
(when,  according  to  his  birth-certificate,  his  father  and  mother  ought 
to  have  been  married),  was  alive  still,  when  he  took  possession  of  the 
property  in  the  New  Year  of  eighteen  hundred  and  twenty-seven. 
This  awkward  circumstance  forced  him  to  extend  his  inquiries  to 
our  neighborhood.  There  no  such  danger  existed,  the  former  cler- 
gyman at  our  church  having  been  dead  for  some  years. 

Old  Welmingham  suited  his  purpose  as  well  as  Knowlesbury.  His 
father  had  removed  his  mother  from  Knowlesbury,  and  had  lived 
with  her  at  a  cottage  on  the  river,  a  little  distance  from  our  -pillage. 
People  who  had  known  his  solitary  ways  when  he  was  single,  did 
not  wonder  at  his  solitary  ways  when  he  was  supposed  to  be  married. 
If  he  had  not  been  a  hideous  creature  to  look  at,  his  retired  life  with 
the  lady  might  have  raised  suspicions :  but,  as  things  were,  his  hid- 
ing his  ugliness  and  his  defonnity  in  the  strictest  privacy  suq^rised 
nolbody.  He  lived  in  our  neighborhood  till  he  came  in  possession  of 
the  Park.  After  three  or  four  and  twenty  years  had  passed,  who 
was  to  say  (the  clergyman  being  dead)  that  his  marriage-had  not 
been  as  private  as  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  that  it  had  not  taken  place 
at  Old  Welmingham  Church  ? 

So,  as  I  told  you,  the  son  found  our  neighborhood  the  surest  place 
he  could  choose,  to  set  things  right  secretly  in  his  own  interests.  It 
may  surprise  you  to  hear  that  what  he  really  did  to  the  marriage-regis- 
ter was  done  on  the  spur  of  the  moment— done  on  second  thoughts. 

His  first  notion  was  only  to  tear  the  leaf  out  (in  the  right  y^r  and 
month),  to  destroy  it  privately,  to  go  back  to  London,  and  to  tell 
the  la^-yers  to  get  him  the  necessary  certificate  of  his  father's  mar- 
riage, innocently  referring  them,  of  course,  to  the  date  on  the  leaf 
that  was  gone.  Nobody  could  say  his  father  and  mother  had  not 
been  married  after  that  —  and  whether,  under  the  circumstances, 
they  would  stretch  a  point  or  not  about  lending  him  the  money  (he 
thought  they  would),  he  had  his  answer  ready  at  all  events,  if  a 
question  was  ever  raised  about  his  right  to  the  name  and  the  estate. 


468  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

But  when  lie  came  to  look  privately  at  the  register  for  himself,  he 
found  at  the  bottom  of  one  of  the  pages  for  the  year  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  three  a  blank  si:)ace  left,  seemingly  through  there  being  no 
room  to  make  a  long  entry  tlicre,  which  was  made  instead  at  the 
top  of  the  next  page.  The  sight  of  this  cliance  altered  all  his  plans. 
It  was  an  opportunity  he  had  never  hoped  for,  or  thought  of — and 
he  took  it,  you  know  how.  The  blank  space,  to  have  exactly  tallied 
with  his  birth-certificate,  ought  to  have  occurred  in  the  July  jDart 
of  the  register.  It  occurred  in  the  September  part  instead.  How- 
ever, in  this  case,  if  suspicious  questions  were  asked,  the  answer  w^as 
not  hard  to  find.  He  had  only  to  describe  himself  as  a  seven  months' 
child. 

I  was  fool  enough,  when  he  told  me  his  story,  to  feel  some  interest 
and  some  pity  for  him — which  w^as  just  what  he  calculated  on,  as 
you  will  see.  I  tliought  him  hardly  used.  It  was  not  his  fault  that 
his  father  and  mother  were  not  married ;  and  it  was  not  his  father's 
and  mother's  fault  either.  A  more  scrupulous  woman  than  I  was — 
a  woman  who  had  not  set  her  heart  on  a  gold  watch  and  chain — 
w^ould  have  found  some  excuses  for  him.  At  all  events,  I  held  my 
tongue,  and  helped  to  screen  what  he  was  about. 

He  was  some  time  getting  the  ink  the  right  color  (mixing  it  over 
and  over  again  in  pots  and  bottles  of  mine),  and,  some  time  after- 
ward, in  practicing  the  handwriting.  But  he  succeeded  in  the  end 
— and  made  an  honest  woman  of  his  motlier  after  she  was  dead  in 
her  grave  !  So  far,  I  don't  deny  that  he  Ijehaved  honorably  enough 
to  myself.  He  gave  me  my  watch  and  chain,  and  spared  no  expense 
in  buying  them ;  both  were  of  superior  workmanship,  and  very  ex- 
pensive.    I  have  got  them  still — the  watch  goes  beautifully. 

You  said,  the  other  day,  that  Mrs.  Clements  had  told  you  every 
thing  she  knew.  In  that  case,  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  write  about 
the  trumpery  scandal  by  which  I  was  the  sufferer — the  innocent  suf- 
ferer, I  positively  assert.  You  must  know^  as  well  as  I  do  what  the 
notion  was  which  my  husband  took  into  his  head,  when  he  found 
me  and  my  fine  gentleman  acquaintance  meeting  each  other  private- 
ly, and  talking  secrets  together.  But  what  you  don't  know,  is  how 
it  ended  between  that  same  gentleman  and  myself  You  shall  read, 
and  see  how  he  l)ehaved  to  me. 

The  first  words  I  said  to  him,  when  I  saw  the  turn  things  had 
taken,  were,  "  Do  me  justice ;  clear  my  character  of  a  stain  on  it 
which  you  k  i  )w  I  don't  deserve.  I  don't  want  you  to  make  a  clean 
l)reast  of  it  to  my  husband ;  only  tell  him,  on  your  word  of  honor  as 
a  gentleman,  that  he  is  wTong,  and  that  I  am  not  to  blame  in  the 
way  he  thinks  I  am.  Do  me  that  justice,  at  least,  after  all  I  have 
done  for  you."  He  flatly  refused,  in  so  many  words.  He  told  me, 
plainly,  that  it  was  his  interest  to  let  my  husband  and  all  my  neigh- 


THE    WOMAN.  IN    AVIIITE.  469 

bors  believe  the  falsehood — because,  as  long  as  they  did  so,  they 
were  quite  certain  never  to  suspect  the  truth.  I  had  a  spirit  of  my 
own ;  and  I  told  him  they  should  know  the  truth  from  my  lips.  His 
reply  was  short  and  to  the  point.  If  I  sj)oke,  I  was  a  lost  woman, 
as  certainly  as  he  was  a  lost  man. 

Yes  I  it  had  come  to  that.  He  had  deceived  me  about  the  risk  I 
ran  in  helping  him.  He  had  practiced  on  my  ignorance ;  he  had 
tempted  me  with  his  gifts  ;  he  had  interested  me  with  his  story — 
and  the  result  of  it  was  that  he  made  me  his  accomplice.  He  owned 
this  coolly ;  and  he  ended  by  telling  me,  for  the  first  time,  what  the 
fi-ightful  punishment  really  was  for  his  offense,  and  for  any  one  who 
helped  him  to  commit  it,  Ip^those  days,  the  law  was  not  so  tender-  y 
hearted  as  I  hear  it  is  now\  Murderers  were  not  the  only  people^^ 
liable  to  be  hanged ;  and  women  convicts  were  not  treated  like  la- 
dies in  undeserved  distress.  I  confess  he  frightened  me — the  mean 
impostor  !  the  cowardly  blackguard  I  Do  you  understand,  now, 
how  I  hated  him  ?  Do  you  understand  why  I  am  taking  all  this 
trouble — thankfully  taking  it — to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  the  merito- 
rious young  gentleman  w^ho  hunted  him  clov>'n  ? 

Well,  to  go  on.  He  was  hardly  fool  enough  to  drive  me  to  down- 
right desperation,  I  was  not  the  sort  of  woman  whom  it  was  quite 
safe  to  hunt  into  a  corner — he  knew  that,  and  wisely  quieted  me 
with  proposals  for  the  future. 

I  deserved  some  reward  (lie  was  kind  enough  to  say)  for  the  serv- 
ice I  had  done  him,  and  some  compensation  (he  was  so  obliging  as 
to  add)  for  what  I  had  suffered.  He  was  quite  willing — generous 
scoundrel  I  —  to  make  me  a  handsome  yearly  allowance,  payable 
quarterly,  on  two  conditions.  First,  I  was  to  hold  my  tongue — in 
my  own  interests  as  well  as  in  his.  Secondly,  I  was  not  to  stir  away 
from  "Welmingham  without  first  letting  him  know,  and  waiting  till 
I  had  obtained  his  jDermission.  In  my  own  neighborhood,  no  virtu- 
ous female  friends  would  tempt  me  into  dangerous  gossiping  at  the 
tea-table.  In  my  ovrn  neighborhood,  he  would  always  know  where 
to  find  me.     A  hard  condition,  that  second  one — but  I  accepted  it. 

What  else  was  I  to  do  ?  I  was  left  helpless,  with  the  prospect  of 
a  coming  incumbrance  in  the  shape  of  a  child.  What  else  was  I  to 
do  ?  Cast  myself  on  the  mercy  of  my  runaway  idiot  of  a  husband 
who  had  raised  the  scandal  against  me  ?  I  would  have  died  first. 
Besides,  the  allowance  was  a  handsome  one,  I  had  a  better  income, 
a  better  house  over  my  head,  better  carpets  on  my  floors,  than  half 
the  women  who  turned  up  the  whites  of  their  eyes  at  the  sight  of 
me.     The  dress  of  Virtue  in  our  parts  was  cotton  print.     I  had  silk. 

So  I  accepted  the  conditions  he  oflered  me,  and  made  the  best  of 
them,  and  fought  my  battle  w^ith  my  respectable  neighljors  on  theii 
own  ground,  and  won  it  in  course  of  time  —  as  you  saw  yourself 


470  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

How  I  kept  bis  Secret  (and  mine)  through  all  the  years  thai  have 
passed  from  that  time  to  this  ;  and  whether  mj'  late  daughter,  Anne, 
ever  really  crept  into  my  confidence,  and  got  the  keeping  of  the 
Secret  too — are  questions,  I  dare  say,  to  which  you  are  curious  to 
find  an  answer.  Well !  my  gratitude  refuses  you  nothing.  I  will 
turn  to  a  fresh  page,  and  give  you  the  answer,  immediately.  But 
you  must  excuse  one  thing  —  you  must  excuse  my  beginning,  Mr. 
Hartright,  with  an  expression  of  surprise  at  the  mtercst  which  you 
appear  to  have  felt  in  my  late  daughter.  It  is  quite  unaccountable 
to  me.  If  that  interest  makes  you  anxious  for  any  particulars  of 
her  early  life,  I  must  refer  you  to  Mrs.  Clements,  who  knows  more 
of-tlie  subject  than  I  do.  Pray  understand  that  I  do  not  profess 
to  have  been  at  all  overfond  of  my  late  daughter.  She  was  a  wor- 
ry to  me  from  first  to  last,  with  the  additional  disadvantage  of  being 
always  weak  in  the  head.  You  like  candor,  and  I  hope  this  satisfies 
you. 

There  is  no  need  to  trouble  you  with  many  personal  particulars 
relating  to  those  past  times.  It  will  be  enough  to  say  that  I  ob- 
served the  terms  of  the  bargain  on  my  side,  and  that  I  enjoyed  my 
comfortable  income,  in  return,  paid  quarterly. 

Kow  and  then  I  got  away,  and  changed  the  scene  for  a  short 
time,  always  asking  leave  of  my  lord  and  master  first,  and  generally 
getting  it.  He  was  not,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  fool  enough  to 
drive  me  too  hard ;  and  he  could  reasonably  rely  on  my  holding  my 
tongue,  for  my  own  sake,  if  not  for  his.  One  of  my  longest  trips 
away  from  home  was  the  trip  I  took  to  Limmeridge,  to  nurse  a  half- 
sister  there,  who  was  dying.  She  was  rej^orted  to  have  saved  mon- 
ey ;  and  I  thought  it  as  well  (in  case  any  accident  happened  to  stop 
my  allowance)  to  look  after  my  own  interests  in  that  direction.  As 
things  turned  out,  however,  my  pains  were  all  thrown  away ;  and  I 
got  nothing,  because  nothing  was  to  be  had. 

I  had  taken  Anne  to  the  North  with  me ;  having  my  whims  and 
fancies,  occasionally,  about  my  child,  and  getting,  at  such  times, 
jealous  of  Mrs.  Clements's  influence  over  her.  I  never  liked  Mrs. 
Clements.  She  was  a  poor,  empty-headed,  spiritless  woman — what 
you  call  a  born  drudge — and  I  was,  now  and  then,  not  averse  to 
plaguing  her  by  taking  Anne  away.  Not  knowing  what  else  to  do 
w^th  my  girl,  while  I  was  nursing  in  Cumberland,  I. put  her  to  school 
at  Limmeridge.  The  lady  of  the  manor,  Mrs.  Fairlie  (a  remarkably 
plain-looking  woman,  who  had  entrapped  one  of  the  handsomest 
men  in  England  into  marrying  her),  amused  me  wonderfully,  by  tak- 
ing a  violent  fancy  to  my  girl.  The  consequence  was,  she  learned 
nothing  at  school,  and  was  petted  and  spoiled  at  Limmeridge  House. 
Among  otlicr  whims  and  fancies  which  they  taught  her  there, 
they  put  some  nonsense  into  her  head  about  always  wearing  white. 


THE    WOiLlN   IN   WHITE.  471 

Hating  white  ancl.  liking  colors  myself,  I  determined  to  take  the  non- 
sense out  of  her  head  as  soon  as  we  got  home  again. 

Strange  to  say,  my  daughter  resolutely  resisted  me.  When  she 
had  got  a  notion  once  fixed  in  her  mind  she  was,  like  other  half- 
witted people,  as  obstinate  as  a  mule  in  keeping  it.  We  quarreled 
finely ;  and  Mrs.  Clements,  not  liking  to  see  it,  I  suppose,  ofiFered  to 
take  Anne  away  to  live  in  London  w^th  her.  I  should  have  said 
Yes,  if  Mrs.  Clements  had  not  sided  with  my  daughter  about  her 
dressing  herself  in  white.  But,  being  determined  she  should  not 
dress  herself  in  white,  and  disliking  Mrs.  Clements  more  than  ever 
for  taking  part  against  me,  I  said  No,  ond  meant  No,  and  stuck  to 
No.  The  consequence  was,  my  daughter  remained  with  me ;  and 
the  consequence  of  that,  in  its  turn,  was  the  first  serious  quarrel  that 
haj^pened  about  the  Secret. 

The  circumstance  took  place  long  after  the  time  I  have  just  been 
writing  of.  I  had  been  settled  for  years  in  the  new  town  ;  and  was 
steadily  living  down  my  bad  character,  and  slowly  gaining  ground 
among  the  respectable  inhabitants.  It  helped  me  forward  greatly 
toward  this  object,  to  have  my  daughter  with  me.  Her  harmless- 
ness,  and  her  fancy  for  dressing  in  white,  excited  a  certain  amount 
of  sympathy.  I  left  oflf  opposing  her  favorite  whim  on  that  account, 
because  some  of  the  sympathy  was  sure,  in  course  of  time,  to  fall  to 
my  share.  Some  of  it  did  foil.  I  date  my  getting  a  choice  of  the 
two  best  sittings  to  let  in  the  church,  from  that  time ;  and  I  date 
the  clergyman's  first  bow  from  my  getting  the  sittings. 

Well,  being  settled  in  this  way,  I  received  a  letter  one  morning 
from  that  highly-born  gentleman  (now  deceased),  in  answer  to  one 
of  mine,  warning  him,  according  to  agreement,  of  my  wishing  to 
leave  the  town,  for  a  little  change  of  air  and  scene. 

The  ruffianly  side  of  him  must  have  been  uppermost,  I  suppose, 
when  he  got  my  letter — for  he  wrote  back,  refusing  me  in  such 
abominably  insolent  language,  that  I  lost  all  command  over  myself, 
and  abused  him,  in  my  daughter's  presence,  as  "  a  low  impostor 
whom  I  could  ruin  for  life,  if  I  chose  to  open  my  lips  and  let  out  his 
secret."  I  said  no  more  about  him  than  that ;  being  brought  to  my 
senses,  as  soon  as  those  words  had  escaped  me,  by  the  sight  of  my 
daughter's  face  looking  eagerly  and  curiously  at  mine.  I  instantly 
ordered  her  out  of  the  room  until  I  had  composed  myself  again. 

My  sensations  were  not  pleasant,  I  can  tell  you,  when  I  came  to 
reflect  on  my  own  folly.  Anne  had  been  more  than  usually  crazy 
and  queer  that  year  ;  and  when  I  thought  of  the  chance  there  might 
be  of  her  repeating  my  words  in  the  town,  and  mentioning  Tiis  name 
in  connection  with  them,  if  inquisitive  peof)le  got  hold  of  her,  I  was 
finely  terrified  at  the  possible  consequences.  My  worst  fears  for  my- 
self, my  worst  dread  of  what  he  might  do,  led  me  no  further  than 


472  THE    WOMAN   IN    AVIIITE. 

this.  I  was  quite  unprepared  for  what  really  did  happen,  only  the 
next  day. 

On  that  next  day,  without  any  warning  to  me  to  expect  him,  he 
came  to  the  liouse. 

His  first  words,  and  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke  them,  surly  as  it 
was,  showed  me  plainly  enough  that  he  had  repented  already  of  his 
insolent  answer  to  my  application,  and  that  he  had  come,  in  a  mighty 
bad  temper,  to  try  and  set  matters  right  again  before  it  was  too  late. 
Seeing  my  daughter  in  the  room  with  me  (I  had  been  afraid  to  let 
her  out  of  my  sight,  after  what  had  happened  the  day  before),  he 
ordered  her  away.  They  neither  of  them  liked  each  other,  and  he 
vented  the  ill-temper  on  her  which  he  was  afraid  to  show  to  me. 

"  Leave  us,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  over  his  shoulder.  She  look- 
ed back  over  her  shoulder,  and  waited,  as  if  she  didn't  care  to  go. 
"  Do  you  hear?"  he  roared  out ;  "  leave  the  room."  "  Speak  to  me 
civilly,"  says  she,  getting  red  in  the  face.  "  Turn  the  idiot  out," 
says  he,  looking  my  way.  She  had  always  had  crazy  notions  of  her 
own  about  her  dignity ;  and  that  word  ''  idiot  "  upset  her  in  a 
moment.  Before  I  could  interfere,  she  stepped  up  to  him  in  a  fine 
passion.  "  Beg  my  pardon  directly,"  says  she,  "  or  I'll  make  it  the 
worse  for  you.  I'll  let  out  your  secret.  I  can  ruin  you  for  life,  if  I 
choose  to  open  my  lips."  My  own  words  I — repeated  exactly  from 
what  I  had  said  the  day  before — repeated,  in  his  presence,  as  if  they 
had  come  from  herself.  He  sat  speechless,  as  white  as  the  paper  I 
am  writing  on,  while  I  pushed  her  out  of  the  room.  When  he  re- 
covered himself — 

No  !  I  am  too  respectable  a  woman  to  mention  what  he  said 
when  he  recovered  himself.  My  pen  is  the  pen  of  a  member  of  the 
rector's  congregation,  and  a  subscriber  to  the  ''  "Wednesday  Lectures 
on  Justification  by  Faith  " — how  can  you  expect  me  to  employ  it  in 
writing  bad  language  ?  Suppose,  for  yourself,  the  raging,  swearing 
frenzy  of  the  lowest  ruffian  in  England ;  and  let  us  get  on  together, 
as  fast  as  may  be,  to  the  way  in  which  it  all  ended. 

It  ended,  as  you  probably  guess,  by  this  time,  in  his  insisting  on 
securing  his  own  safety  by  shutting  her  up. 

I  tried  to  set  things  right.  I  told  him  that  she  had  merely  re- 
peated, like  a  parrot,  the  words  she  had  heard  me  say,  and  that  she 
knew  no  particulars  whatever,  because  I  had  mentioned  none.  I 
explained  that  she  had  aflected,  out  of  crazy  spite  against  him,  to 
know  what  she  really  did  not  know ;  that  she  only  wanted  to 
threaten  him  and  aggravate  him,  for  speaking  to  her  as  he  had  just 
spoken  ;  and  that  my  unlucky  words  gave  her  just  the  chance  of  do- 
ing mischief  of  which  she  was  in  search.  I  referred  him  to  other 
queer  ways  of  hers,  and  to  his  own  experience  of  the  vagaries  of 
half-witted  people — it  was  all  to  no  purpose — he  would  not  believe 


THE  wo:\rAx  ix  white.  473 

me  on  my  oath — he  was  absohitely  certain  I  had  betrayed  tlie  wliole 
Secret.     In  short,  he  would  hear  of  nothing  but  shutting  her  up. 

Under  these  circumstances,  I  did  my  duty  as  a  mother,  "  Xo 
pauper  AsyUim,"  I  said  ;  ''  I  won't  have  her  put  in  a  pauper  Asylum. 
A  Private  Establishment,  if  you  please.  I  have  my  feelings  as  a 
mother,  and  my  character  to  preserve  in  the  town ;  and  I  will  sub- 
mit to  nothing  but  a  Private  Establishment,  of  the  sort  which  my 
genteel  neighbors  would  choose  for  afflicted  relatives  of  their  own." 
Those  were  my  words.  It  is  gratifying  to  me  to  reflect  that  I  did 
my  duty.  Though  never  overfond  of  my  late  daughter,  I  had  a 
proper  pride  about  her.  No  pauj)er  stain — thanks  to  my  firmness 
and  resolution — ever  rested  on  my  child  ! 

Having  carried  my  point  (which  I  did  the  more  easily,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  facilities  offered  by  private  Asylums),  I  could  not  re- 
fuse to  admit  that  there  were  certain  advantages  gained  by  shutting 
her  up.  In  the  first  place,  she  was  taken  excellent  care  of — being 
treated  (as  I  took  care  to  mention  in  the  town)  on  the  footing  of  a 
lady.  In  the  second  j^lace,  she  was  kept  away  from  Welmingham, 
where  she  might  have  set  people  suspecting  and  inquiring,  by  re- 
peating my  own  incautious  words. 

The  only  drawback  of  putting  her  under  restraint  was  a  very 
slight  one.  We  merely  turned  her  empty  boast  about  knowing  the 
secret,  into  a  fixed  delusion.  Having  first  spoken  in  sheer  crazy 
spitefulness  against  the  man  who  had  ofiended  her,  she  was  cun- 
ning enough  to  see  that  she  had  seriously  frightened  him,  and 
sharp  enough  afterward  to  discover  that  Jie  was  concerned  in  shut- 
ting her  up.  The  consequence  was,  she  flamed  out  into  a  perfect 
frenzy  of  passion  against  him,  going  to  the  Asylum ;  and  the  flrst 
words  she  said  to  the  nurses,  after  they  had  quieted  her,  were,  that 
she  was  put  in  confinement  for  knowing  his  secret,  and  that  she 
meant  to  open  her  lips  and  ruin  him,  when  the  right  time  came. 

She  may  have  said  the  same  thing  to  you,  when  you  thoughtlessly 
assisted  her  escape.  She  certainly  said  it  (as  I  heard  last  summer) 
to  the  unfortunate  woman  who  married  our  sweet-tempered,  name- 
less gentleman,  lately  deceased.  If  either  you  or  that  unlucky  lady 
had  questioned  my  daughter  closely,  and  had  insisted  on  her  ex- 
plaining what  she  really  meant,  you  would  have  found  her  lose  all 
her  self-importance  suddenly,  and  get  vacant,  and  restless,  and  con- 
fused— you  would  have  discovered  that  I  am  writing  nothing  here 
but  the  plain  truth.  She  knew  that  there  was  a  secret — she  knew 
who  was  connected  with  it — she  knew  who  would  sufier  by  its  be- 
ing known — and,  beyond  that,  whatever  airs  of  importance  she  may 
have  given  herself,  whatever  crazy  boasting  she  may  have  indulged 
in  with  strangers,  she  never  to  her  dying  day  knew  more. 

Have  I  satisfied  your  curiosity  ?     I  have  taken  jDains  enough  to 


474  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

satisfy  it  at  any  rate.  There  is  really  nothing  else  I  have  to  tell 
you  about  uiyself,  or  my  daughter.  My  worst  responsibilities,  so  far 
as  she  was  concerned,  were  all  over  when  she  was  secured  in  the 
Asylum.  I  had  a  form  of  letter  relating  to  the  circumstances  un- 
der which  she  was  shut  up,  given  me  to  write,  in  answer  to  one 
Miss  Hp.lcombe,  who  was  curious  in  the  matter,  and  who  must  have 
heard  plenty  of  lies  about  me  from  a  certain  tongue  well  accustomed 
to  the  telling  of  the  same.  And  I  did  what  I  could  afterward  to 
trace  my  runaway  daughter,  and  prevent  her  from  doing  mischief, 
by  making  inquiries  myself  in  the  neighborhood  where  she  was 
ftilscly  reportecl  to  have  been  seen.  But  these,  and  other  trifles  like 
them,  arc  of  little  or  no  interest  to  you  after  what  you  have  heard 
already. 

So  far  I  have  written  in  the  friendliest  possible  spirit.  But  I  can 
not  close  this  letter  without  adding  a  word  here  of  serious  remon- 
strance and  reproof,  addressed  to  yourself. 

In  the  course  of  your  i^ersonal  interview  with  me,  you  audaciously 
referred  to  my  late  daughter's  parentage,  on  the  father's  side,  as  if 
that  parentage  was  a  matter  of  doubt.  This  was  highly  improper, 
and  very  ungentleman-like  on  your  i^art!  If  we  see  each  other 
again,  remember,  if  you  please,  that  I  will  allow  no  liberties  to  be 
taken  with  my  reputation,  and  that  the  moral  atmosphere  of  Wel- 
mingham  (to  use  a  favorite  expression  of  my  friend  the  rector's) 
must  not  be  tainted  by  loose  conversation  of  any  kind.  If  you  al- 
low yourself  to  doubt  that  my  husband  was  Anne's  father,  you  per- 
sonally insult  me  in  the  grossest  manner.  If  you  have  felt,  and  if 
you  still  continue  to  feel,  an  unhallowed  curiosity  on  this  subject,  I 
recommend  you,  in  your  own  interests,  to  check  it  at  once  and  for- 
ever. On  this  side  of  the  grave,  Mr.  Hartright,  whatever  may  hap- 
pen on  the  other,  that  curiosity  will  never  be  gratified. 

Perhaps,  after  what  I  have  just  said,  you  will  see  the  necessity  of 
writing  me  an  apolog}'.  Do  so  ;  and  I  will  willingly  receive  it.  I 
will  afterward,  if  your  wishes  point  to  a  second  interview  ^-ith  me, 
go  a  step  further,  and  receive  you.  My  circumstances  only  enable 
me  to  invite  you  to  tea — not  that  they  are  at  all  altered  for  the 
worse  by  what  has  happened.  I  have  always  lived,  as  I  think  I 
told  you,  well  within  my  income ;  and  I  have  saved  enough,  in  the 
last  twenty  years,  to  make  me  quite  comfortable  for  the  rest  of  my 
life.  It  is  not  my  intention  to  leave  Welmingham.  There  are  one 
or  two  little  advantages  which  I  have  still  to  gain  in  the  town.  The 
clergyman  bows  to  me — as  you  saw.  lie  is  married  ;  and  his  wife 
is  not  quite  so  civil.  I  propose  to  join  the  Dorcas  Society;  and  I 
mean  to  make  the  clergyman's  wife  bow  to  me  next. 

If  you  favor  me  with  your  company,  pray  understand  that  the 
conversation  must  be  entirely  on  general  subjects.     Any  attempted 


THE    AVOMAX    IX    WHITE.  475 

reference  to  this  letter  will  be  quite  useless — I  am  determined  not 
to  acknowledge  having  written  it.  The  evidence  has  been  destroy- 
ed in  the  tire,  I  know ;  but  I  think  it  desirable  to  err  on  the  side  of 
caution,  nevertheless. 

On  this  account,  no  names  are  mentioned  here,  nor  is  any  signa- 
ture attached  to  these  lines  :  the  handwriting  is  disguised  through- 
out, and  I  mean  to  deliver  the  letter  myself,  under  circumstances 
which  will  prevent  all  fear  of  its  being  traced  to  my  house.  You 
can  have  no  possible  cause  to  complain  of  these  precautions,  seeing 
that  they  do  not  affect  the  information  I  here  communicate,  in  con- 
sideration of  the  special  indulgence  which  you  have  deserved  at 
my  hands.  My  hour  for  tea  is  half-past  five,  and  my  buttered  toast 
waits  for  no  bod  v. 


Tlie  Story  continued  hy  Waltek  ILviiTPtiGHT. 


My  first  impulse,  after  reading  Mrs.  Catherick's  extraordinary 
narrative,  was  to  destroy  it.  The  hardened,  shameless  depravity 
of  the  whole  composition,  from  beginning  to  end — tlie  atrocious 
perversity  of  mind  which  persistently  associated  me  with  a  calamity 
for  which  I  was  in  no  sense  answerable,  and  with  a  death  which  I 
had  risked  my  life  in  trying  to  avert — so  disgusted  me,  that  I  was 
on  the  point  of  tearing  the  letter,  when  a  consideration  suggested 
itself,  which  warned  me  to  vrait  a  little  before  I  destroyed  it. 

This  consideration  was  entirely  unconnected  with  Sir  Percival. 
The  information  communicated  to  me,  so  far  as  it  concerned  him, 
did  little  more  than  confirm  the  conclusions  at  which  I  had  already 
arrived. 

He  had  committed  his  offense  as  I  had  supposed  him  to  have  com- 
mitted it ;  and  the  absence  of  all  reference,  on  ]Mrs.  Catherick's  part, 
to  the  duplicate  register  at  Knowlesbury,  strengthened  my  previous 
conviction  that  the  existence  of  the  book,  and  the  risk  of  detection 
which  it  implied,  must  have  been  necessarily  unknown  to  Sir  Per- 
cival. My  interest  in  the  question  of  the  forgery  was  now  at  an 
end ;  and  my  only  oT)ject  in  keeping  the  letter  was  to  make  it  of 
some  future  service  in  clearing  ujd  the  last  mystery  that  still  re- 
mained to  baffle  me — the  parentage  of  Anne  Catherick,  on  the  fa- , 
ther's  side.  There  were  one  or  two  sentences  dropped  in  her  moth- 
er's narrative,  which  it  might  be  useful  to  refer  to  again,  when  mat- 
ters of  more  immediate  importance  allowed  me  leisure  to  search  for 
the  missing  evidence.  I  did  not  despair  of  still  finding  that  evi- 
dence ;  and  I  had  lost  none  of  my  anxiety  to  discover  it,  for  I  had 


476  THE    WOMAN   IN   "WHITE. 

lost  none  of  my  interest  in  tracing  the  father  of  the  poor  creature 
who  now  hiy  at  rest  in  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave. 

Accordingly,  I  sealed  up  the  letter,  and  put  it  away  carefully  in 
my  pocket-book,  to  be  referred  to  again  when  the  time  came. 

The  next  day  was  my  last  in  Ilampsliire.  When  I  had  appeared 
again  ])efore  the  magistrate  at  Knowlesbury,  and  when  I  had  attend- 
ed at  the  adjourned  Inquest,  I  should  be  free  to  return  to  London 
by  the  afternoon  or  the  evening  train. 

My  first  errand  in  the  morning  was,  as  usual,  to  the  post-office. 
The  letter  from  Marian  was  there,  but  I  thought,  when  it  was  hand- 
ed to  me,  that  it  felt  unusually  light.  I  anxiously  opened  the  en- 
velope. There  was  nothing  inside  but  a  small  strip  of  paper,  folded 
in  two.  The  few  blotted,  hurriedly-written  lines  which  were  traced 
on  it  contained  these  words : 

"  Come  back  as  soon  as  you  can.  I  have  been  obliged  to  move. 
Come  to  Gower's  Walk,  Fulham  (number  five).  I  will  be  on  the 
look-out  for  you.  Don't  be  alarmed  about  us ;  we  are  both  safe  and 
well.     But  come  back. — Mariax." 

The  news  which  those  lines  contained — news  which  I  instantly 
associated  with  some  attempted  treachery  on  the  part  of  Count  Fosco 
— fairly  overwhelmed  me.  I  stood  breathless,  with  the  paper  crum- 
pled up  in  my  hand.  What  had  happened  ?  What  subtle  wicked- 
ness had  the  Count  planned  and  executed  in  my  absence  ?  A  night 
had  passed  since  Marian's  note  was  written — hours  must  elapse  still, 
before  I  could  get  back  to  them — some  new  disaster  might  have  hap- 
pened already,  of  which  I  was  ignorant.  And  here,  miles  and  miles 
away  from  them,  here  I  must  remain — held,  douljly  held,  at  the  dis- 
posal of  the  law  I 

I  hardly  know  to  what  forgctfulncss  of  my  ol/ligations  anxiety 
and  alarm  might  not  have  tempted  me,  but  for  tlie  quieting  influ- 
ence of  my  faith  in  Marian.  My  absolute  reliance  on  her  was  the 
one  earthly  consideration  which  helped  me  to  restrain  myself,  and 
gave  me  courage  to  wait.  The  Inquest  was  the  first  of  the  impedi- 
ments in  the  way  of  my  freedom  of  action.  I  attended  it  at  the  ap- 
pointed time;  the  legal  formalities  requiring  my  presence  m  the 
room,  but,  as  it  turned  out,  not  calling  on  me  to  repeat  my  evidence. 
This  useless  delay  was  a  hard  trial,  although  I  did  my  best  to  quiet 
my  impatience  by  following  the  course  of  the  proceedings  as  closely 
as  I  could. 

The  London  solicitor  of  the  deceased  (Mr.  !Mcrriman)  was  among 
the  persons  present.  But  he  was  quite  unable  to  assist  the  objects 
of  the  inquiry.  lie  could  only  say  that  he  was  inexpressibly  shocked 
and  astonished,  and  that  he  could  throw  no  light  whatever  on  the 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  477 

mysterious'  circumstances  of  the  case.  At  intervals  during  the  ad- 
journed investigation,  he  suggested  questions  which  the  Coroner 
put,  but  which  led  to  no  results.  After  a  patient  inquiry,  which 
lasted  nearly  three  hours,  and  which  exhausted  every  available 
source  of  information,  the  jury  pronounced  the  customary  verdict  in 
cases  of  sudden  death  by  accident.  They  added  to  the  formal  de- 
cision a  statement  that  there  had  been  no  evidence  to  show  how  the 
keys  had  been  abstracted,  how  the  fire  had  been  caused,  or  what  the 
purpose  was  for  which  the  deceased  had  entered  the  A''estry.  This 
act  closed  the  proceedings.  The  legal  representative  of  the  dead 
man  was  left  to  provide  for  the  necessities  of  the  interment,  and  the 
witnesses  were  free  to  retire. 

Resolved  not  to  lose  a  minute  in  getting  to  Knowlesbury,  I  paid 
my  bill  at  the  hotel,  and  hired  a  fly  to  take  me  to  the  town.  A  gen- 
tleman who  heard  me  give  the  order,  and  who  saw  that  I  was  going 
alone,  informed  me  that  he  lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  Knowles- 
bury, and  asked  if  I  would  have  any  objection  to  his  getting  home 
by  sharing  the  fly  with  me.  I  accepted  his  proposal  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

Our  conversation  during  the  drive  was  naturally  occupied  by  the 
one  absorbing  subject  of  local  interest. 

My  new  acquaintance  had  some  knowledge  of  the  late  Sir  Perci- 
vaFs  solicitor ;  and  he  and  Mr.  Merriman  had  been  discussing  the 
state  of  the  deceased  gentleman's  affairs  and  the  succession  to  the 
property.  Sir  PercivaFs  embarrassments  were  so  well  known  all 
over  the  county  that  his  solicitor  could  only  make  a  virtue  of  neces- 
sity and  plainly  acknowledge  them.  He  had  died  without  leaving 
a  will,  and  he  had  no  personal  property  to  bequeath,  even  if  he  had 
made  one  ;  the  whole  fortune  which  he  had  derived  from  his  wife 
having  been  swallowed  up  by  his  creditors.  The  heir  to  the  estate 
(Sir  Percival  having  left  no  issue)  was  a  son  of  Sir  Felix  Glyde's 
first  cousin — an  officer  in  command  of  an  East  Indiaman.  He  would 
find  his  unexpected  inheritance  sadly  encumbered ;  but  the  proper- 
ty would  recover  with  time,  and,  if  "  the  captain  "  was  careful,  he 
might  be  a  rich  man  yet  before  he  died. 

Absorbed  as  I  was  in  the  one  idea  of  getting  to  London,  this  in- 
formation (which  events  proved  to  be  perfectly  correct)  had  an  in- 
terest of  its  own  to  attract  my  attention.  I  thought  it  justified  me 
in  keeping  secret  my  discovery  of  Sir  Percival's  fraud.  The  heir 
whose  rights  he  had  usurped  was  the  heir  who  would  now  have  the 
estate.  The  income  from  it,  for  the  last  three-and-twenty  years, 
which  should  properly  have  been  his,  and  which  the  dead  man  had 
squandered  to  the  last  farthing,  was  gone  beyond  recall.  If  I  spoke, 
my  speaking  would  confer  advantage  on  no  one.  If  I  kept  the  se- 
cret, my  silence  concealed  the  character  of  the  man  who  had  cheat- 


478  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

ed  Laura  into  marrying  liim.  For  her  sake,  I  wislied  to  conceal  it 
—for  licr  sake  still,  I  tell  this  story  under  feigned  names, 

I  parted  with  my  chance  companion  at  Knowlesbury,  and  went  at 
once  to  tlie  town-hall.  As  I  had  anticipated,  no  one  was  present  to 
prosecute  the  case  against  me — the  necessary  formalities  were  ob- 
served— and  I  was  discharged.  On  leaving  the  court,  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Dawson  w^as  put  into  my  hand.  It  informed  me  that  he  was 
absent  on  professional  duty,  and  it  reiterated  the  offer  I  had  already 
received  from  him  of  any  assistance  which  I  might  require  at  his 
hands.  I  wrote  back,  warmly  acknowledging  my  obligations  to  his 
kindness,  and  apologizing  for  not  expressing  my  thanks  personal- 
ly, in  consequence  of  my  immediate  recall,  on  pressing  business,  to 
town. 

Half  an  lioui"  later  I  was  speeding  back  to  London  by  the  express 
train. 

II. 

It  was  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  before  I  reached  Fulham, 
and  found  my  way  to  Gower's  Walk, 

Both  Laura  and  Marian  came  to  the  door  to  let  me  in,  I  think 
we  had  hardly  known  how  close  the  tie  was  which  bound  us  three 
together,  until  the  evening  came  which  united  us  again,  We  met 
as  if  we  had  been  jDarted  for  months,  instead  of  for  a  few  days  only. 
Marian's  face  was  sadly  worn  and  anxious.  I  saw  who  had  known 
all  the  danger,  and  bome  all  the  trouble,  in  my  absence,  the  moment 
I  looked  at  her.  Laura's  brighter  looks  and  better  spirits  told  me 
how  carefully  she  had  been  spared  all  knowledge  of  the  dreadful 
death  at  Welmingham,  and  of  the  true  reason  for  our  change  of 
abode. 

The  stir  of  the  removal  seemed  to  have  cheered  and  interested 
her.  She  only  spoke  of  it  as  a  happy  thought  of  Marian's  to  sur- 
prise me,  on  my  return,  with  a  change  from  the  close,  noisy  street, 
to  the  pleasant  neighborhood  of  trees  and  fields,  and  the  river.  She 
was  full  of  projects  for  the  future — of  the  drawings  she  was  to  fin- 
ish ;  of  the  purchasers  I  had  found  in  the  country,  who  were  to  buy 
them ;  of  the  shillings  and  sixpences  she  had  saved,  till  her  purse 
was  so  heavy  that  she  j^roudly  asked  me  to  weigh  it  in  my  own 
hand.  The  change  for  the  better  wiiich  had  been  wrought  in  her, 
during  the  few  days  of  my  absence,  was  a  surprise  to  me  for  which 
I  was  quite  unprepared — and  for  all  the  unspeakable  happiness  of 
seeing  it,  I  was  indebted  to  Marian's  courage  and  to  Marian's  love. 

Wlien  Laura  had  left  us,  and  when  we  could  speak  to  one  anoth- 
er M'ithout  restraint,  I  tried  to  give  some  expression  to  the  gratitude 
and  the  admiration  which  filled  my  heart.  But  the  generous  crea- 
ture would  not  wait  to  hear  me.     Tliat  sublime  self-forgetfulness  of 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  479 

women,  which  yields  so  much  and  asks  so  little,  turned  all  her 
thoughts  from  herself  to  me. 

''  I  had  only  a  moment  left  before  post-time,"  she  said, ''  or  I 
should  have  -written  less  abruptly.  You  look  worn  and  weary, 
Walter — I  am  afraid  my  letter  must  have  seriously  alarmed  you  ?'' 

''  Only  at  first,"  I  replied.  '*  My  mind  was  quieted,  Marian,  by  my 
trust  in  you.  Was  I  right  in  attributing  this  sudden  change  of 
place  to  some  threatened  annoyance  on  the  part  of  Count  Fosco  ?" 

'•  Perfectly  right,"  she  said.  ''  I  saw  him  yesterday  ;  and,  worse 
than  that,  Walter — I  spoke  to  him." 

'*  Spoke  to  him  ?  Did  he  know  where  we  lived  ?  Did  he  come 
to  the  house  ?" 

''  He  did.  To  the  house — but  not  up  stairs.  Laura  never  saw 
him ;  Laura  suspects  nothing.  I  will  tell  you  how  it  happened :  the 
danger,  I  believe  and  hope,  is  over  now.  Yesterday  I  was  in  the 
sitting-room,  at  our  old  lodgings.  Laura  was  drawing  at  the  table, 
and  I  was  walking  about  and  setting  things  to  rights.  I  passed  the 
window,  and,  as  I  passed  it,  looked  out  into  the  street.  There,  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  I  saw  the  Count,  with  a  man  talking 
to  him — " 

"  Did  he  notice  you  at  the  window  ?" 

"  No — at  least,  I  thought  not.  I  was  too  violently  startled  to  be 
quite  sure." 

''  Who  vras  the  other  man  ?     A  stranger  ?" 

"  Not  a  stranger,  Walter.  As  soon  as  I  could  draw  my  breath 
again,  I  recognized  him.  He  was  the  owner  of  the  Lunatic  Asy- 
lum." 

'•  Was  the  Count  pointing  out  the  house  to  him  ?" 

"No;  they  were  talking  together  as  if  they  had  accidentally  met 
in  the  street.  I  remained  at  the  window  looking  at  them  from  be- 
hind the  curtain.  If  I  had  turned  round,  and  if  Laura  had  seen  my 
face  at  that  moment —  Thank  God,  she  was  absorbed  over  her 
drawing  I  They  soon  parted.  The  man  from  the  Asylum  went 
one  way,  and  the  Count  the  other.  I  began  to  hope  they  were  in 
the  street  by  chance,  till  I  saw  the  Count  come  back,  stop  opposite 
to  us  again,  take  out  his  card-case  and  pencil,  write  sometliing,  and 
then  cross  the  road  to  the  shop  below  us.  I  ran  past  Laura  before 
she  could  see  me,  and  said  I  had  forgotten  something  up  stairs.  As 
soon  as  I  was  out  of  the  room,  I  went  down  to  the  first  landing  and 
waited — I  was  determined  to  stop  him  if  he  tried  to  come  up  stairs. 
He  made  no  such  attempt.  The  girl  from  the  shop  came  through 
the  door  into  the  passage,  with  his  card  in  her  hand — a  large  gilt 
card,  with  his  name,  and  a  coronet  above  it,  and  these  lines  under- 
neath in  pencil :  '  Dear  lady '  (yes !  the  villain  could  address  me  in 
that  way  stillj — '  dear  lady,  one  word,  I  implore  you,  on  a  matter  se- 


480  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

rious  to  US  l)ot]i.'  If  one  can  think  at  all  in  serious  difficulties,  one 
thinks  quick.  I  felt  directly  that  it  might  be  a  fatal  mistake  to 
leave  myself  and  to  leave  you  in  the  dark,  where  such  a  man  as  the 
Count  was  concerned.  I  felt  that  the  doubt  of  what  he  might  do 
in  your  absence  would  be  ten  times  more  trying  to  me  if  I  declined 
to  see  him  than  if  I  consented.  'Ask  the  gentleman  to  wait  in  the 
shop,'  I  said.  '  I  w^U  be  with  him  in  a  moment.'  I  ran  up  stairs 
for  my  bonnet,  being  deteraiined  not  to  let  him  speak  to  me  in- 
doors. I  knew  his  deep,  ringing  voice,  and  I  Mas  afraid  Laura 
might  hear  it,  even  in  the  shop.  In  less  than  a  minute  I  was  down 
again  in  the  passage,  and  had  opened  the  door  into  the  street.  He 
came  round  to  meet  me  from  the  shop.  There  he  was,  in  deep 
mourning,  with  his  smooth  bow  and  his  deadly  smile,  and  some  idle 
boys  and  women  near  him,  staring  at  his  great  size,  his  fine  black 
clothes,  and  his  large  cane  with  the  gold  knob  to  it.  All  the  horri- 
ble time  at  Blackwater  came  l^ack  to  me  the  moment  I  set  eyes  on 
him.  All  the  old  loathing  crept  and  crawled  through  me  when  he 
took  off  his  hat  with  a  flourish  and  spoke  to  me,  as  if  we  had  parted 
on  the  friendliest  terms  hardly  a  day  since." 

"  You  remember  what  he  said  ?" 

"  I  can't  repeat  it,  Walter.  You  shall  know  directly  what  he  said 
about  you — but  I  can  t  repeat  what  he  said  to  me.  It  was  worse 
than  the  polite  insolence  of  his  letter.  My  hands  tingled  to  strike 
him,  as  if  I  had  been  a  man  !  I  only  kept  them  quiet  by  tearing  his 
card  to  pieces  under  my  shawl.  Without  saying  a  worcl  on  my  side, 
I  walked  away  from  the  house  (for  fear  of  Laura  seeing  us),  and  he 
followed,  protesting  softly  all  the  way.  In  the  first  by-street  I  turn- 
ed, and  asked  him  what  he  wanted  with  me.  He  wanted  two  things. 
First,  if  I  had  no  objection,  to  express  his  sentiments.  I  declined  to 
hear  them.  Secondly,  to  repeat  the  warning  in  his  letter.  I  asked, 
what  occasion  there  was  for  repeating  it.  He  bowed  and  smiled, 
and  said  he  would  explain.  The  explanation  exactly  confinned  the 
fears  I  expressed  before  you  left  us.  I  told  you,  if  you  remember, 
that  Sir  Percival  would  be  too  headstrong  to  take  his  friend's  ad- 
vice where  you  were  concerned ;  and  that  there  was  no  danger  to 
be  dreaded  from  the  Count  till  his  own  interests  were  threatened, 
and  he  was  roused  into  acting  for  himself." 

"  I  recollect,  Marian." 

"  Well ;  so  it  has  really  turned  out.  The  Count  offered  his  ad- 
vice, but  it  was  refused.  Sir  Percival  would  only  take  counsel  of 
his  own  violence,  his  own  obstinacy,  and  his  own  hatred  of  you. 
The  Count  let  him  have  his  way ;  first  privately  ascertaining,  in 
case  of  his  own  interests  being  threatened  next,  where  we  lived. 
You  were  followed,  Walter,  on  returning,  here  after  your  first  jour- 
ney to  Hampshire — ])y  the  lawyer's  men  for  some  distance  from  the 


THE    WOMAN    IN    AVHITE.  481 

railwoy,  and  by  the  Count  himself  to  the  door  of  the  house.  How 
he  contrived  to  escape  being  seen  by  you,  he  did  not  tell  me;  but 
he  found  us  out  on  that  occasion,  and  in  that  way.  Having  made 
the  discovery,  he  took  no  advantage  of  it  till  the  news  reached  him 
of  Sir  Percival's  death — and  then,  as  I  told  you,  he  acted  for  him- 
self, because  he  believed  you  would  next  proceed  against  the  dead 
man's  partner  in  the  conspiracy.  He  at  once  made  his  arrange- 
ments to  meet  the  owner  of  the  Asylum  in  London,  and  to  take 
him  to  the  place  where  his  runaway  patient  was  hidden ;  believing 
that  the  results,  whichever  way  they  ended,  would  be  to  involve 
you  in  interminable  legal  disputes  and  difficulties,  and  to  tie  your 
hands  for  all  purposes  of  offense,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned.  That 
was  his  puqiose,  on  his  own  confession  to  me.  The  only  considera- 
tion which  made  him  hesitate  at  the  last  moment — " 

"  Yes  r 

"  It  is  hard  to  acknowledge  it,  Walter — and  yet  I  must,  /  was 
the  only  consideration,  No  words  can  say  how  degraded  I  feel  in 
my  own  estimation  when  I  think  of  it — but  the  one  weak  point  in 
that  man's  iron  character  is  the  horrible  admiration  he  feels  for  me. 
■"f~have  tried,  for  the  sake  of  my  own  self-respect,  to  disbelieve  it  as 
long  as  I  could ;  but  his  looks,  his  actions,  force  on  me  the  shameful 
conviction  of  the  truth.  The  eyes  of  that  monster  of  wickedness 
moistened  while  he  was  speaking  to  me — they  did,  Walter !  He 
declared  that  at  the  moment  of  pointing  out  the  house  to  the  doc- 
tor he  thought  of  my  misery  if  I  was  separated  from  Laura,  of  my 
responsibility  if  I  was  called  on  to  answer  for  effecting  her  escape — 
and  he  risked  the  worst  that  you  could  do  to  him  the  second  time, 
for  my  sake.  All  he  asked  was  that  I  would  remember  the  sacrifice, 
and  restrain  your  rashness,  in  my  own  interests — interests  which  he 
might  never  be  able  to  consult  again,  I  made  no  such  bargain  with 
him ;  I  would  have  died  first.  But  believe  him  or  not — whether  it 
is  true  or  false  that  he  sent  the  doctor  away  with  an  excuse — one 
thing  is  certain,  I  saw  the  man  leave  him,  without  so  much  as  a 
glance  at  our  window,  or  even  at  our  side  of  the  way," 

"  I  believe  it,  Marian,  The  best  men  are  not  consistent  in  good — 
why  should  the  worst  men  be  consistent  in  evil  ?  At  the  same  time, 
I  suspect  him  of  merely  attempting  to  frighten  you  by  threatening 
what  he  can  not  really  do.  I  doubt  his  power  of  annojing  us,  by 
means  of  the  owner  of  the  Asylum,  now  that  Sir  Percival  is  dead, 
and  Mrs.  Catherick  is  free  from  all  control.  But  let  me  hear  more. 
What  did  the  Count  say  of  me  ?" 

"  He  spoke  last  of  you.  His  eyes  brightened  and  hardened,  and 
his  manner  changed  to  what  I  remember  it,  in  past  times  —  to 
that  mixture  of  pitiless  resolution  and  mountebank  mockery  which 
makes  it  so  impossible  to  fathom  him.     '  Warn  Mr.  Hartright  I'  he 

21 


482  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

sftld^  in  liis  loftiest  manner,  '  He  has  a  man  of  l^rains  to  deal  with, 
h  man  wlio  snaps  liis  big  finr^ers  at  the  laws  and  conventions  of 
Sj-ciety,  when  he  measures  himself  with  me.  If  my  lamented  friend 
had  taken  my  advice,  the  business  of  the  inquest  would  have  been 
with  f  le  body  of  Mr.  Hartright.  But  my  lamented  friend  was  ob- 
stinate. See  !  I  mourn  his  loss — inw^ardly  in  my  soul ;  outwardly 
on  my  hat.  This  trivial  crape  expresses  sensibilities  which  I  sum- 
mon Mr.  Hartright  to  respect.  They  may  be  transformed  to  im- 
measurable enmities,  if  he  ventures  to  disturb  them.  Let  him  1  e 
content  with  what  he  has  got — with  what  I  leave  unmolested,  for 
\  our  sake,  to  him  and  to  you.  Say  to  him  (with  my  compliments), 
if  he  stirs  me,  he  has  Fosco  to  deal  with.  In  the  English  of  the 
Po})ular  Tongue,  I  inform  him — Fosco  sticks  at  nothing  I  Dear  lady, 
good-morning.'  His  cold  gray  eyes  settled  on  my  face — he  took  oft" 
his  hat  solemnly — bowed,  bare-headed — and  left  me." 
"  Without  returning  ?  without  saying  more  last  words  ?" 
"He  turned  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  waved  his  hand,  and 
then  struck  it  theatrically  on  his  breast.  I  lost  sight  of  him  after 
that.  He  disappeared  in  the  opposite  direction  to  our  house,  and  I 
ran  back  to  Laura.  Before  I  was  indoors  again,  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  that  we  must  go.  The  house  (especially  in  jour  absence)  was 
a  place  of  danger  instead  of  a  place  of  safety,  now  that  the  Count 
had  discovered  it.  If  I  could  have  felt  certain  of  your  return,  I 
should  have  risked  waiting  till  you  came  back.  But  I  was  certain 
of  nothing,  and  I  acted  at  once  on  my  own  impulse.  You  had 
spoken,  before  leaving  us,  of  moving  into  a  quieter  neighborhood 
and  purer  air,  for  the  sake  of  Laura's  health.  I  had  only  to  remind 
her  of  that,  and  to  suggest  surprising  you  and  saving  you  trouble 
by  managing  the  move  in  your  absence,  to  make  her  quite  as  anxious 
for  the  change  as  I  was.  She  helped  me  to  pack  up  your  things — 
and  she  has  arranged  them  all  for  you  in  your  new^  working-room 
here." 

"  What  made  you  think  of  coming  to  this  place  ?" 
"  My  ignorance  of  other  localities  in  the  neighborhood  of  London. 
I  felt  the  necessity  of  getting  as  far  away  as  possible  from  our  old 
lodgings ;  and  I  knew  something  of  Fulham  because  I  had  once 
been  at  school  there.  I  dispatched  a  messenger  with  a  note,  on  the 
chance  that  the  school  might  still  be  in  existence.  It  was  in  exist- 
ence ;  the  daughters  of  my  old  mistress  were  carrying  it  on  for  her ; 
and  they  engaged  this  place  from  the  instructions  I  had  sent.  It 
was  just  post-time  when  the  messenger  returned  to  me  with  the  ad- 
dress of  the  house.  We  moved  after  dark — we  came  here  quite  un- 
observed. Have  I  done  right,  Walter?  Have  I  justified  your  trust 
in  me  ?" 

I  answered  her  warmly  and  gratefully,  as  I  really  felt.     But  tho 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  483 

anxious  look  still  remained  on  her  face  while  I  was  speaking ;  and 
the  first  question  she  asked,  when  I  had  done,  related  to  Count 
Fosco. 

I  saw  that  she  was  thinking  of  him  now  with  a  changed  mind. 
No  fresh  outbreak  of  anger  against  him,  no  new  appeal  to  me  to 
hasten  the  day  of  reckoning,  escaped  her.  Her  conviction  that  the 
man's  hateful  admiration  of  herself  was  really  sincere,  seemed  to 
have  increased  a  hundred-fold  her  distrust  of  his  unfathomable  cun- 
ning, her  inborn  dread  of  the  wicked  energy  and  vigilance  of  all  his 
faculties.  Her  voice  fell  low,  her  manner  was  hesitating,  her  eyes 
searched  into  mine  with  an  eager  fear,  when  she  asked  me  what  I 
thought  of  his  message,  and  what  I  meant  to  do  next,  after  hear- 
ing it. 

"  Not  many  weeks  have  passed,  Manan,''  I  answered,  '•  since  my 
interview  with  Mr.  Kyrle.  When  he  and  I  parted,  the  last  words  I 
said  to  him  about  Laura  were  these  :  '  Her  uncle's  house  shall  open 
to  receive  her,  in  the  presence  of  every  soul  who  followed  the  false 
funeral  to  the  grave ;  the  lie  that  records  her  death  shall  be  publicly 
erased  from  the  tombstone  by  the  authority  of  the  head  of  the  fam- 
ily ;  and  the  two  men  who  have  wronged  her  shall  answer  for  their 
crime  to  me,  though  the  justice  that  sits  in  tribunals  is  j^owerless  to 
pursue  them.'  One  of  those  men  is  beyond  mortal  reach.  The 
other  remains — and  my  resolution  remains." 

Her  eyes  lit  up  ;  her  color  rose.  She  said  notliing ;  but  I  saw  all 
lier  sympathies  gathering  to  mine,  in  her  face. 

'•  I  don't  disguise  from  myself,  or  from  you,"  I  went  on,  "  that  the 
prospect  l^efore  us  is  more  than  doubtful.  The  risks  we  have  run 
already  are,  it  may  be,  trifles,  compared  with  the  risks  that  threaten 
us  in  the  future — but  the  venture  shall  be  tried,  Marian,  for  all  that. 
I  am  not  rash  enough  to  measure  myself  against  such  a  man  as  the 
Count,  before  I  am  well  prepared  for  him.  I  have  learned  patience  ; 
I  can  wait  my  time.  Let  him  believe  that  his  message  has  produced 
its  effect ;  let  him  know  nothing  of  us,  and  hear  nothing  of  us ;  let 
us  give  him  full  time  to  feel  secure — his  own  boastfril  nature,  unless 
I  seriously  mistake  him,  will  hasten  that  result.  This  is  one  reason 
for  waiting ;  but  there  is  another  more  important  still.  My  j^osition, 
Marian,  toward  you  and  toward  Laura  ought  to  be  a  stronger  one 
than  it  is  now,  before  I  try  our  last  chance." 

She  leaned  near  to  me  with  a  look  of  surprise, 

"  How  can  it  be  stronger  ?*'  she  asked. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  I  replied.  ''  when  the  time  comes.  It  has  not 
come  yet :  it  may  never  come  at  all.  I  may  be  silent  about  it  to 
Laura  forever — I  must  be  silent  now,  even  to  you,  till  I  see  for  my- 
self that  I  can  harmlessly  and  honorably  speak.  Let  us  leave  that 
subject.     There  is  another  which  has  more  pressing  claims  on  our 


484  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

attention.  You  liave  kept  Laura,  mercifully  kept  her,  in  ignorance 
of  her  husband's  death — " 

"  Oh,  Walter,  surely  it  must  be  long  yet  Ixjfore  we  tell  her  of  it  ?" 

"  No,  Marian.  Better  that  you  should  reveal  it  to  her  now,  than 
that  accident,  which  no  one  can  guard  against,  should  reveal  it  to 
her  at  some  future  time.  Spare  her  all  the  details — break  it  to  her 
very  tenderly — but  tell  her  that  he  is  dead." 

"  You  have  a  reason,  Walter,  for  wishing  her  to  know  of  her  husr 
band's  death  besides  the  reason  you  have  just  mentioned  ?" 

"I  have." 

"A  reason  connected  with  that  subject  which  must  not  be  men- 
tioned between  us  yet? — which  may  never  be  mentioned  to  Laura 
at  all  ?" 

She  dwelt  on  the  last  words  meaningly.  When  I  answered  her  in 
the  affirmative,  I  dwelt  on  them  too. 

Her  face  grew  pale.  For  a  while  she  looked  at  me  with  a  sad, 
hesitating  interest.  An  unaccustomed  tenderness  trembled  in  her 
dark  eyes  and  softened  her  fii-m  lips,  as  she  glanced  aside  at  the 
empty  chair  in  which  the  dear  companion  of  all  our  joys  and  sor- 
rows had  been  sitting. 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  she  said.  "I  think  I  owe  it  to  her  and  to 
you,  Walter,  to  tell  her  of  her  husband's  death." 

She  sighed,  and  held  my  hand  fast  for  a  moment — then  dropped 
it  abniptly,  and  left  the  room.  On  the  next  day  Laura  knew  that 
his  death  bad  released  her,  and  that  the  eiTor  and  the  calamity  of 
her  life  lay  buried  in  his  tomb. 

His  name  was  mentioned  among  us  no  more.  Thenceforward  we 
shrank  from  the  slightest  approach  to  the  subject  of  bis  death ;  and, 
in  the  same  scrupulous  manner,  Marian  and  I  avoided  all  further 
reference  to  that  other  subject,  which,  by  her  consent  and  mine,  was 
not  to  be  mentioned  between  us  yet.  It  was  not  the  less  present  to 
our  minds — it  was  rather  kept  alive  in  them  by  the  restraint  which 
we  had  imposed  on  ourselves.  We  both  watched  Laura  more  anx- 
iously than  ever ;  sometimes  waiting  and  hoping,  sometimes  waiting 
and  fearing,  till  the  time  came. 

By  degrees  we  returned  to  our  accustomed  way  of  life.  I  resumed 
the  daily  work  which  had  been  suspended  during  my  absence  in 
Hampshire.  Our  new  lodgings  cost  us  more  than  the  smaller  and 
less  convenient  rooms  Avhich  we  had  left ;  and  the  claim  tluis  im- 
plied on  my  increased  exertions  was  strengthened  by  the  doubtful- 
ness of  our  future  pros])ects.  Emergencies  might  yet  hapi)cn  which 
would  exhaust  our  little  fund  at  the  banker's;  and  the  work  of  my 
hands  might  l)e,  ultimately,  all  we  had  to  look  to  for  support.  More 
l)ermancnt  an«l  m(»re  lucrative  emj^loyment  than  had  yet  \)cvn  ofltred 


THE    WOMAN-    IX    WHITE.  485 

to  me  was  a  necessity  of  our  position — a  necessity  for  which  I  now 
diligently  set  myself  to  provide. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  interval  of  rest  and  seclusion  of 
which  I  am  now  writing  entirely  suspended,  on  my  part,  all  pursuit 
of  the  one  absorbing  purpose  with  wdiich  my  thoughts  and  actions 
are  associated  in  these  pages.  That  puqx)se  was,  for  months  and 
months  yet,  never  to  relax  it5  claims  on  me.  The  slow  ripening  of 
it  still  left  me  a  measure  of  precaution  to  take,  an  obligation  of 
gratitude  to  perform,  and  a  doubtful  question  to  solve. 

The  measure  of  precaution  related,  necessarily,  to  the  Count.  It 
was  of  the  last  importance  to  ascertain,  if  possible,  whether  his  plans 
committed  him  to  remaining  in  England — or,  in  other  words,  to  i-e- 
maining  within  my  reach,  I  contrived  to  set  this  doubt  at  rest  by 
very  simple  means.  His  address  in  St.  John's  Wood  being  known 
to  me,  I  inquired  in  the  neighborhood ;  and  having  found  out  the 
agent  who  had  the  disposal  of  the  furnished  house  in  which  he 
lived,  I  asked  if  number  five,  Forest  Road,  was  likely  to  be  let  with- 
in a  reasonable  time.  The  reply  was  in  the  negative.  I  was  in- 
formed that  the  foreign  gentleman  then  residing  in  the  house  had 
renewed  his  term  of  occupation  for  another  six  months,  and  would 
remain  in  possession  until  the  end  of  June  in  the  following  year. 
We  were  then  at  the  beginning  of  December  only.  I  left  the 
agent  with  my  mind  relieved  from,  all  present  fear  of  the  Count's 
escaping  me. 

The  obligation  I  had  to  perform  took  me  once  more  into  the  pres- 
ence of  Mrs.  Clements.  I  had  promised  to  return,  and  to  confide  to 
her  those  particulars  relating  to  the  death  and  burial  of  x\nne  Cath- 
erick,  which  I  had  been  obliged  to  withhold  at  our  first  interview. 
Changed  as  circumstances  now  were,  there  was  no  hinderance  to  my 
trusting  the  good  woman  with  as  much  of  the  story  of  the  conspira- 
cy as  it  was  necessary  to  tell.  I  had  every  reason  that  sympathy 
and  friendly  feeling  could  suggest  to  urge  on  me  the  speedy  perform- 
ance of  my  promise,  and  I  did  conscientiously  and  carefully  perform 
it.  There  is  no  need  to  burden  these  pages  with  any  statement  of 
what  passed  at  the  interview.  It  will  l3e  more  to  the  purpose  to  say 
that  the  interview  itself  necessarily  brought  to  my  mind  the  one 
doubtful  question  still  remaining  to  be  solved — the  question  of  Anne 
Catherick's  parentage  on  the  father's  side. 

A  multitude  of  small  considerations  in  connection  with  this  sub- 
ject— trifling  enough  in  themselves,  but  strikingly  important  when 
massed  together — had  latterly  led  my  mind  to  a  conclusion  which  I 
resolved  to  verify.  I  obtained  Marian's  permission  to  write  to  Ma- 
jor Donthorne,  of  Varneck  Hall  (where  Mrs.  Catherick  had  lived  in 
service  for  some  years  previous  to  her  marriage),  to  ask  him  certain 
questions.     I  made  the  inquiries  in  Marian's  name,  and  described 


486  THE    -WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

tlicm  as  relating  to  matters  of  persional  interest  in  licr  fumily,  which 
might  explain  and  excuse  my  ap})lication.  When  I  wrote  the  letter, 
T  liatl  no  cei-fciin  knowledge  that  Major  Donthome  was  still  alive ; 
1  disjwtchcd  it  on  the  chance  that  he  might  be  livings  and  able  and 
willing  to  reply. 

After  a  lapse  of  two  days,  proof  came,  in  the  sliape  of  a  letter,  that 
the  Major  was  living,  and  that  he  was  ready  to  help  us. 

The  idea  in  my  mind  when  I  wrote  to  him,  and  the  nature  of  my 
inquiries,  will  l^e  ea&ily  inferred  from  his  reply.  His  letter  answer- 
ed my  questions,  by  communicating  these  important  facts: 

In  the  first  place,  '*  the  late  Sir  Percival  Glyde,  of  Blackwater 
Park,"  had  never  set  foot  in  Varneck  Hall.  The  deceased  gentle- 
man was  a  total  stranger  to  Major  Donthorne,  and  to  all  Ivis  family. 

In  the  second  place,  "  the  late  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie^  of  Limmeridge 
House,"  had  been,  in  his  younger  clays,  the  intimate  friend  and  con- 
stant guest  of  Major  Donthome.  Having  refreshed  his  memoiy  by 
looking  l>ack  to  old  letters  and  other  papers,  the  Major  was  in  a 
position  to  say  positively,  that  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  was  staying  at 
Varneck  Hall  in  the  month  of  August,  eighteen  hundred  and  twen- 
ty-six, and  that  he  remained  there  for  the  shooting  duriur:  the 
month  of  Septeml>€r  and  part  of  October  follov/ing.  He  then  left, 
to  the  best  of  the  Major's  Ijelief,  for  Scotland,  and  did  not  return  to 
Varneck  Hall  till  after  a  lapse  of  time,  when  he  re-appeared  in  tlie 
character  of  a  newly-married  man. 

Taken  by  itself,  this  statement  was,  perliaps,  of  little  positive  val- 
ue— but,  taken  in  connection  with  certain  facts,  every  one  of  which 
cither  Marian  or  I  knew  to  Ix?  true,  it  suggested  one  plain  conclu- 
sion that  w^as,  to  our  minds,  irresistible. 

Knowing,  now,  that  Mr,  Philip  Fairlie  had  l^een  at  Varneck  Hall 
in  the  autumn  of  eighteen  hundred  and  twenty-six,  and  that  Mrs. 
Catherick  had  been  living  there  in  sen-ice  at  the  same  time,  we 
knew  also :  first,  that  Anne  had  been  bom  in  June,  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  twenty-seven ;  secondly,  that  she  had  always  presented 
an  extraordinary  personal  resemblance  to  Laura;  and  thirdly,  that 
Laura  herself  was  strikingly  like  her  father.  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  had 
been  one  of  the  notoriously  handsome  men  of  his  time.  In  disposi- 
tion entirely  milike  his  brother  Frederick,  he  was  the  spoiled  dar- 
ling of  society,  especially  of  the  women — an  easy,  light-hearted,  im- 
pulsive, aficctionate  man;  generous  to  a  fault;  constitutionally  lax 
in  his  principles,  and  notoriously  thoughtless  of  moral  obligations 
where  women  were  concerned.  Such  were  the  facts  we  knew; 
such  was  the  character  of  the  man.  Surely,  the  plain  inference  that 
follows  needs  no  pointing  out  ? 

Head  by  the  new  light  which  had  now  l)roken  ui)on  me,  even 
Mrs.  Catherick's  letter,  in  despite  of  herself,  rendered  its  mite  of  as- 


THE    WOMAN   IX    WHITE.  487 

■  sistance  toward  strengthening  tlie  conclusion  at  which  I  had  ar- 
rived. She  had  described  Mrs.  Fairlie  (in  writing  to  me)  as  "•  plain- 
looking,"  and  as  having  "  entrapped  the  handsomest  man  in  En- 
gland into  marrying  her."  Both  assertions  were  gratuitously  made, 
and  both  were  false.  Jealous  dislike  (which,  in  such  a  woman  as 
Mrs.  Catherick,  would  express  itself  in  petty  malice  rather  than  not 
express  itself  at  all)  appeared  to  me  to  be  the  only  assignable  cause 
for  the  peculiar  insolence  of  her  reference  to  Mrs.  Fairlie,  under  cir- 
cumstances which  did  not  necessitate  any  reference  at  all. 

The  mention  here  of  Mrs.  Fairlie's  name  naturally  suggests  one 
other  question.  Did  she  ever  suspect  whose  child  the  little  girl 
brought  to  her  at  Limmeridge  might  l^e  ? 

Marian's  testimony  was  positive  on  this  point.  Mrs.  Fairlie's  let- 
ter to  her  husband,  which  had  been  read  to  me  in  former  days — the 
letter  describing  Anne's  resemblance  to  Laura,  and  acknowledging 
her  affectionate  interest  in  the  little  stranger — had  been  written,  be- 
yond all  question,  in  perfect  innocence  of  heart.  It  even  seemed 
doubtful,  on  consideration,  whether  Mr.  Philip  Fairlie  himself  had 
been  nearer  than  his  wife  to  any  suspicion  of  the  truth.  The  dis- 
gracefully deceitful  circumstances  under  which  Mrs.  Catherick  had 
married,  the  purpose  of  concealment  which  the  marriage  was  in- 
tended to  answer,  might  well  keep  her  silent  for  caution's  sake,  per- 
haps for  her  own  pride's  sake  also — even  assuming  tliat  she  had  the 
means,  in  his  absence,  of  communicating  with  the  father  of  her  un- 
born child. 

As  this  surmise  floated  through  my  mind,  there  rose  on  my  mem- 
ory the  remembrance  of  the  Scripture  denunciation  which  we  have 
all  thought  of,  in  our  time,  with  wonder  and  with  awe :  "  The  sins 
of  the  fathers  shall  be  visited  on  the  children."  But  for  the  fatal 
resemblance  between  the  two  daughters  of  one  father,  the  conspir- 
acy of  which  Anne  had  been  the  innocent  instrument  and  Laura  the 
innocent  victim,  could  never  have  been  planned.  With  wdiat  un- 
erring and  terrible  directness  the  long  chain  of  circumstances  led 
down  from  the  thoughtless  wrong  committed  by  the  flither  to  the 
heartless  injury  inflicted  on  the  child  I 

These  thoughts  came  to  me,  and  others  with  them,  which  drew 
my  mind  aw  ay  to  the  little  Cumberland  church-yard  where  Anne 
Catherick  now  lay  buried.  I  thought  of  the  by-gone  days  when  I 
had  met  her  by  Mrs.  Fairlie's  grave,  and  met  her  for  the  last  time. 
I  thought  of  her  poor  helpless  hands  beating  on  the  tombstone,  and 
her  weary,  yearning  words,  murmured  to  the  dead  remains  of  her 
protectress  and  her  friend.  ''  Oh,  if  I  could  die,  and  be  hidden  and 
at  rest  with  you  /"  Little  more  than  a  year  had  passed  since  she 
breathed  that  wish  ;  and  how^  inscrutal)!}-,  how  awfully,  it  had  been 
fulfilled  !     The  words  she  had  spoken  to  Laura  by  the  shores  of  the 


488  THE  WOMAN  IN  avhitp:. 

lake,  tlie  very  v/ords  had  now  come  true.  "Oh,  if  I  couhl  only  be 
buried  with  your  mother  I  If  I  could  only  wake  at  her  side  when 
the  angel's  trumpet  sounds,  and  the  graves  give  up  their  dead  at  the 
resurrection  I''  Through  what  mortal  crime  and  liorror,  through 
what  darkest  windings  of  the  way  down  to  Death,  the  lost  creature 
]iad  wandered  in  God's  leading  to  the  last  home  that,  living,  she 
never  hoped  to  reach !  In  that  sacred  rest  I  leave  her — in  that 
dread  companionship  let  her  remain  undisturbed. 

So  the  ghostly  figure  which  has  haunted  these  pages  as  it  haunt- 
ed my  life,  goes  down  into  the  impenetrable  Gloom.  Like  a  Shad- 
ow she  first  came  to  me,  in  the  loneliness  of  the  night.  Like  a 
Shadow  she  passes  away,  in  the  loneliness  of  the  dead. 

in. 

Four  months  elapsed.  April  came — the  month  of  Spring;  the 
month  of  change. 

The  course  of  Time  had  flowed  through  the  intcrs-al  since  the 
winter,  peacefully  and  happily  in  our  new  home.  I  had  turned  my 
long  leisure  to  good  account ;  had  largely  increased  my  sources  of 
employment ;  and  had  placed  our  means  of  subsistence  on  surer 
grounds.  Freed  from  the  suspense  and  the  anxiety  which  had  tried 
her  so  sorely,  and  hung  over  her  so  long,  Marian's  spirits  rallied ; 
and  her  natural  energy  of  character  began  to  assert  itself  again,  with 
something,  if  not  all,  of  the  freedom  and  the  vigor  of  former  times. 

More  pliable  under  change  than  her  sister,  Laura  showed  more 
plainly  the  progress  made  by  the  healing  influences  of  her  new  life. 
The  worn  and  wasted  look  which  had  prematurely  aged  her  face 
was  fast  leaving  it ;  and  the  expression  which  had  been  the  first  of 
its  charms  in  past  days  was  the  first  of  its  beauties  that  now  return- 
ed. My  closest  observation  of  her  detected  but  one  serious  result  of 
the  conspiracy  which  had  once  threatened  her  reason  and  her  life. 
Her  memory  of  events,  from  the  period  of  her  leaving  Blackwater 
Park  to  the  period  of  our  meeting  in  the  burial-ground  of  Limmer- 
idge  Church,  was  lost  beyond  all  hope  of  recovery.  At  the  slightest 
reference  to  that  time,  she  changed  and  trembled  still ;  her  words 
became  confused ;  her  memory  wandered  and  lost  itself  as  helpless- 
ly as  ever.  Here,  and  here  only,  the  traces  of  the  past  lay  deep — too 
deep  to  be  effaced. 

In  all  else  she  was  now  so  far  on  the  way  to  recover}',  that,  on  her 
best  and  brightest  days,  she  sometimes  looked  and  spoke  like  tlie 
Laura  of  old  times.  The  happy  change  wrought  its  natural  result 
in  us  lx)th.  From  their  long  slumber,  on  her  side  and  on  mine, 
those  imperishaljle  memories  of  our  past  life  in  Cumberland  now 
awoke,  which  were  one  and  all  alike,  the  memories  of  our  love. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    AVIIITE.  489 

Gradually  and  insensibly  our  daily  relations  toward  each  other 
became  constrained.  The  fond  words  which  I  had  spoken  to  her 
so  naturally,  in  the  days  of  her  sorrow  and  her  sufiering,  faltered 
strangely  on  my  lips.  In  the  time  when  my  dread  of  losing  her 
was  most  present  to  my  mind,  I  had  always  kissed  her  when  she  left 
me  at  night,  and  when  she  met  me  in  the  morning.  The  kiss  seem- 
ed now  to  have  dropped  between  us — to  be  lost  out  of  our  lives. 
Our  hands  began  to  tremble  again  when  they  met.  We  hardly  ever 
looked  long  at  one  another  out  of  Marian's  presence.  The  talk  oft- 
en flagged  between  us  when  we  were  alone.  When  I  touched  her 
by  accident,  I  felt  my  heart  beating  fast,  as  it  used  to  beat  at  Lim- 
meridge  House ;  I  saw  the  lovely  answering  flush  glowing  again  in 
her  cheeks,  as  if  we  were  back  among  the  Cumberland  Hills,  in  our 
past  characters  of  master  and  pupil  once  more.  She  had  long  inter- 
vals of  silence  and  thoughtfulness,  and  denied  she  had  been  think- 
ing when  Marian  asked  her  the  question.  I  surprised  myself  one 
day,  neglecting  my  work,  to  dream  over  the  little  water-color  por- 
trait of  her  which  I  had  taken  in  the  summer-house  where  we  first 
met — just  as  I  used  to  neglect  Mr.  Fairlie's  drawings,  to  dream  over 
the  same  likeness,  when  it  was  newly  finished  in  the  by-gone  time. 
Changed  as  all  the  circumstances  now  were,  our  position  toward  each 
other  in  the  golden  days  of  our  first  companionship  seemed  to  be 
revived  with  the  revival  of  our  love.  Tt  was  as  if  Time  had  drifted 
us  back  on  the  wreck  of  our  early  hopes  to  the  old  familifir  shore  ! 

To  any  other  woman  I  could  have  spoken  the  decisive  words 
which  I  still  hesitated  to  speak  to  Jiej\  The  utter  helplessness  of 
her  position  •  her  friendless  dependence  on  all  the  forbearing  gen- 
tleness that  I  could  show  her;  my  fear  of  touching  too  soon  some 
secret  sensitiveness  in  her,  which  my  instinct  as  a  man  might  not 
have  been  fine  enough  to  discover — these  considerations,  and  others 
like  them,  kept  me  self-distrustfully  silent.  And  yet  I  knew  that 
the  restraint  on  both  sides  must  be  ended;  that  the  relations  in 
which  we  stood  toward  one  another  must  be  altered,  in  some  set- 
tled manner,  for  the  future  ;  and  that  it  rested  with  me,  in  the  first 
instance,  to  recognize  the  necessity  for  a  change. 

The  more  I  thought  of  our  position,  the  harder  the  attempt  to 
alter  it  appeared,  while  the  domestic  conditions  on  which  we  three 
had  been  living  together  since  the  winter  remained  undisturbed.  1 
can  not  account  for  the  capricious  state  of  mind  in  which  this  feel- 
ing originated,  but  the  idea  nevertheless  possessed  me,  that  some 
previous  change  of  place  and  circumstances,  some  sudden  break  in 
the  quiet  m.onotony  of  our  lives,  so  managed  as  to  vary  the  home 
aspect  under  which  we  had  been  accustomed  to  sec  each  other,  might 
prepare  the  way  for  me  to  speak,  and  make  it  easier  and  less  em- 
barrassing for  Laura  and  Marian  to  hear. 

21* 


490  Tin:  woman  in  white. 

Witli  this  purpose  in  view,  I  said  one  morning  that  I  thought  "vre 
had  all  earned  a  little  holiday  and  a  change  of  scene.  After  some 
consideration,  it  was  decided  that  we  should  go  for  a  fortnight  to 
the  sea-side. 

On  the  next  day  we  left  Fulham,  for  a  quiet  town  on  the  south 
coast.  At  that  early  season  of  the  year  we  were  the  only  visitors 
in  the  place.  The  cliffs,  the  beach,  and  the  walks  inland,  were  all 
in  the  solitary  condition  which  was  most  welcome  to  us.  The  air 
was  mild  ;  the  prospects  over  hill  and  wood  and  down  were  beauti- 
fully varied  l)y  the  shifting  April  light  and  shade ;  and  the  restless 
sea  leaped  under  our  windows,  as  if  it  felt,  like  the  land,  the  glow 
and  freshness  of  spring. 

I  owed  it  to  Marian  to  consult  her  before  I  spoke  to  Laura,  and  to 
be  guided  afterward  by  her  advice. 

On  the  third  day  from  our  arrival  I  found  a  fit  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  her  alone.  The  moment  we  looked  at  one  another,  her 
quick  instinct  detected  the  thought  in  my  mind  before  I  could  give 
it  expression.  With  her  customary  energy  and  directness,  she  spoke 
at  once,  and  spoke  first. 

"  You  are  thinking  of  that  subject  which  was  mentioned  between 
us  on  the  evening  of  your  return  from  Hampshire,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  been  expecting  you  to  allude  to  it  for  some  time  past.  There 
must  be  a  change  in  our  little  household,  Walter  ;  we  can  not  go  on 
much  longer  as  we  are  now.  I  see  it  as  plainly  as  you  do — as  plain- 
ly as  Laura  sees  it,  though  she  says  nothing.  How  strangely  the 
old  times  in  Cumberland  seem  to  have  come  back  !  You  and  I  are 
together  again ;  and  the  one  su1>ject  of  interest  between  us  is  Laura 
once  more.  I  could  almost  fancy  that  this  room  is  the  summer- 
house  at  Limmeridge,  and  that  those  waves  beyond  us  are  beating 
on  mir  sea-shore." 

"■  I  was  guided  by  your  advice  in  those  past  days,''  i  said ;  "  and 
now,  iVIarian,  with  reliance  tenfold  greater,  I  will  be  [:uided  by  it 
again." 

She  answered  by  pressing  my  hand.  I  saw  that  she  was  deeply 
touched  by  my  reference  to  the  past.  We  sat  together  near  the 
window ;  and  while  I  spoke  and  she  listened,  we  looked  at  the  glory 
of  the  sunlight  shining  on  the  majesty  of  the  sea. 

"  Whatever  comes  of  this  confidence  between  us,"  I  said,  "  wheth- 
er it  ends  happily  or  sorrowfully  for  we,  Laura's  interests  will  still 
be  the  inte: :  .;.^  of  my  life.  When  we  leave  this  place,  on  whatever 
terms  we  leave  it,  my  determination  to  wrest  from  Count  Fosco  the 
confession  which  I  failed  to  obtain  from  his  accomplice  goes  back 
with  me  to  London  as  certainly  as  I  go  back  myself.  Neither  you 
nor  I  can  tell  how  that  man  may  turn  on  me,  if  I  bring  him  to 
bay ;  we  only  know  l)y  his  own  words  and  actions  Ihat  he  is  capable 


THE    WOMAX    IN    WHITE.  491 

of  striking  at  me,  tliroiigli  Laura,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  or 
a  moment's  remorse.  In  our  present  position,  I  have  no  claim  on 
her  which  society  sanctions,  which  the  law  allows,  to  strengthen  me 
in  resisting  him,  and  in  protecting  her.  This  places  me  at  a  serious 
disadvantage.  If  I  am  to  fight  our  cause  with  the  Count,  strong 
in  the  consciousness  of  Laura's  safety,  I  must  fight  it  for  my  wife. 
Do  you  agree  to  that  Marian,  so  far  T 

"■  To  every  word  of  it,''  she  answered. 

"  I  will  not  plead  out  of  my  own  heart,"  I  went  on ;  ''I  will  not 
appeal  to  the  love  which  has  survived  all  changes  and  all  shocks — 
I  will  rest  my  only  vindication  of  myself  for  thinking  of  her  and 
speaking  of  her  as  my  wife,  on  what  I  have  just  said.  If  the  chance 
of  forcing  a  confession  from  the  Count  is,  as  I  believe  it  to  be,  the 
last  chance  left  of  publicly  establishing  the  fact  of  Laura's  existence, 
the  least  selfish  reason  that  I  can  advance  for  our  marriage  is  rec- 
ognized by  us  both.  But  I  may  be  wrong  in  my  conviction ;  other 
means  of  achieving  our  jjui-pose  may  be  in  our  power,  which  are  less 
uncertain  and  less  dangerous.  I  have  searched  anxiously  in  my  own 
mind  for  those  means,  and  I  have  not  found  them.     Have  you  V 

''ISTo.     I  have  thought  about  it  too,  and  thought  in  vain." 

"In  all  likelihood,"  I  continued,  ''the  same  questions  have  oc- 
curred to  you,  in  considering  this  difficult  subject,  which  have  oc- 
curred to  me.  Ought  we  to  return  with  her  to  Limmeridge,  now 
that  she  is  like  herself  again,  and  trust  to  the  recognition  of  her  by 
the  people  of  the  village,  or  by  the  children  at  the  school  ?  Ought 
we  to  appeal  to  the  practical  test  of  her  handwriting  ?  Suppose  we 
did  so.  Suppose  the  recognition  of  her  obtained,  and  the  identity 
of  the  handwriting  established,  would  success  in  both  those  cases 
do  more  than  supply  an  excellent  foundation  for  a  trial  in  a  court  of 
law  ?  Would  the  recognition  and  the  handwriting  prove  her  iden- 
tity to  Mr.  Fairlie,  and  take  her  back  to  Limmeridge  House,  against 
the  evidence  of  her  aunt,  against  the  evidence  of  the  medical  certifi- 
cate, against  the  fact  of  the  funeral  and  the  fact  of  the  inscription 
on  the  tomb  ?  No  I  We  could  only  hope  to  succeed  in  throwing  a 
serious  doubt  on  the  assertion  of  her  death — a  doubt  which  nothing 
short  of  a  legal  inquiry  can  settle.  I  will  assume  that  we  possess 
(what  we  have  certainly  not  got)  money  enough  to  carry  this  inquiry 
on  through  all  its  stages.  I  will  assume  that  Mr.  Fairlie's  preju- 
dices might  be  reasoned  avray ;  that  the  false  testimony  of  the  Count 
and  his  wife,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  false  testimony,  might  be  con- 
futed ;  that  the  recognition  could  not  possibly  be  ascribed  to  a  mis- 
take between  Laura  and  Anne  Catherick,  or  the  handwriting  be 
declared  by  our  enemies  to  be  a  clever  fraud — all  these  are  assump- 
tions which,  more  or  less,  set  plain  probabilities  at  defiance,  but  let 
them  pass — and  let  us  ask  ourselves  what  would  be  the  first  conse- 


492  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

qnence  of  tlie  first  questions  put  to  Laura  licrself  on  the  subject 
of  the  conspiracy.  We  know  only  too  well  what  tlie  consequence 
would  he,  for  we  know  that  she  has  never  recovered  her  memory  of 
v.iiat  happened  to  her  in  London,  Examine  her  privately,  or  ex- 
amine her  publicly,  she  is  utterly  incapable  of  assisting  the  asser- 
tion of  her  own  case.  If  you  don't  see  this,  Marian,  as  plainly  as  I 
see  it,  we  will  go  to  Limmeridge  and  try  the  experiment  to-morrow." 

"  I  do  see  it,  Walter.  Even  if  we  had  the  means  of  paying  all  the 
law  expenses,  even  if  we  succeeded  in  the  end,  the  delays  would  be 
unendurable ;  the  perpetual  suspense,  after  what  we  have  suffered 
already,  would  be  heart-breaking.  You  are  right  about  the  hope- 
lessness of  going  to  Limmeridge.  I  wish  I  could  feel  sure  that  you 
are  right  also  in  determining  to  try  that  last  chance  with  the  Count. 
Is  it  a  chance  at  all  ?'' 

''Beyond  a  doubt,  yes.  It  is  the  chance  of  recovering  the  lost 
(lite  of  Laura's  journey  to  London,  Without  returning  to  the  rea- 
sons I  gave  you  some  time  since,  I  am  still  as  firmly  persuaded  as 
ever  that  there  is  a  discrepancy  between  the  date  of  that  journey 
and  the  date  on  the  certificate  of  death.  There  lies  the  weak  point 
of  the  whole  conspiracy ;  it  crumbles  to  pieces  if  we  attack  it  in 
that  way,  and  the  means  of  attacking  it  are  in  possession  of  the 
Count.  If  I  succeed  in  wresting  them  from  him,  the  object  of  your 
life  and  mine  is  fulfilled.  If  I  fail,  the  wrong  that  Laura  has  suffer- 
ed will  in  this  world  never  be  redressed." 

"  Do  you  fear  failure  yourself,  Walter  ?" 

"  I  dare  not  anticipate  success ;  and  for  that  very  reason,  Marian, 
I  speak  openly  and  plainly,  as  I  have  spoken  now.  In  my  heart 
and  my  conscience  I  can  say  it — Laura's  hopes  for  the  future  are  at 
their  lowest  ebb.  I  know  that  her  fortune  is  gone;  I  know  that 
the  last  chance  of  restoring  her  to  her  place  in  the  world  lies  at  the 
mercy  of  her  worst  enemy — of  a  man  who  is  now  absolutely  unas- 
sailable, and  who  may  remain  unassailable  to  the  end.  With  every 
worldly  advantage  gone  from  her ;  with  all  prospect  of  recovering 
her  rank  and  station  more  than  doubtful ;  with  no  clearer  future 
l)efore  her  than  the  future  which  her  husband  can  provide  —  the 
poor  drawing-master  may  harmlessly  open. his  heart  at  last.  In 
the  days  of  her  prosperity,  Marian,  I  was  only  the  teacher  who 
guided  her  hand — I  ask  for  it,  in  her  adversity,  as  the  hand  of  my 
wife !" 

Marian's  eyes  met  mine  affectionately — I  could  say  no  more.  My 
heart  was  full,  my  lips  were  trembling.  In  spite  of  myself,  I  was  in 
danger  of  api>ealing  to  her  pity.  I  got  up  to  leave  the  room.  She 
rose  at  the  same  moment,  laid  her  hand  gently  on  my  shoulder,  and 
stopped  me. 

"  Walter  I"  she  said,  "  I  once  parted  you  both,  for  your  good  and 


THE    WOilAN   IN    WHITE.  493 

for  hers.  Wait  here,  my  Brother  ! — wait  my  dearest,  best  friend,  till 
Laura  comes  and  tells  you  what»I  have  done  now  !" 

For  the  first  time  since  the  farewell  morning  at  Limmeridge,  she 
touched  my  forehead  with  her  lips.  A  tear  dropped  on  my  face  as 
she  kissed  me.  She  turned  quickly,  pointed  to  the  chair  from  which 
I  had  risen,  and  left  the  room. 

I  sat  down  alone  at  the  window,  to  wait  through  the  crisis  of  my 
life.  My  mind,  in  that  breathless  interval,  felt  like  a  total  blank.  I 
was  conscious  of  nothing  but  a  painful  intensity  of  all  familiar  per- 
ceptions. The  sun  grew  blinding  bright ;  the  white  sea-birds,  chas- 
ing each  other  far  beyond  me,  seemed  to  be  flitting  before  my  face ; 
the  mellow  murmur  of  the  waves  on  the  beach  was  like  thunder  in 
my  ears. 

The  door  opened,  and  Laura  came  in  alone.  So  she  had  entered 
the  breakfast-room  at  Limmeridge  House  on  the  morning  when  we 
parted.  Slowly  and  falteringly,  in  sorrow  and  in  hesitation,  she  had 
once  approached  me.  Now  she  came  with  the  haste  of  happiness 
in  her  feet,  with  the  light  of  happiness  radiant  in  her  face.  Of  their 
own  accord,  those  dear  arms  clasped  themselves  round  me  ;  of  their 
own  accord,  the  sweet  lips  came  to  meet  mine.  "  My  darling  '.''  she 
whispered,  "  we  may  own  we  love  each  other  now  V  Her  head  nest- 
led with  a  tender  contentedness  on  my  bosom.  "  Oh,"  she  said,  in- 
nocently, "  I  am  so  happy  at  last !" 

Ten  days  later  we  were  happier  still.     We  were  married.    ^-^ 

IV. 

The  course  of  this  narrative,  steadily  flowing  on,  bears  me  away 
from  the  morning-time  of  our  married  life,  and  carries  me  forward 
to  the  end. 

In  a  fortnight  more  we  three  were  back  in  London,  and  the  shad- 
ow was  stealing  over  us  of  the  struggle  to  come. 

Marian  and  I  were  careful  to  keep  Laura  in  ignorance  of  the 
cause  that  had  hurried  us  back — the  necessity  of  making  sure  of 
the  Count.  It  was  now  the  beginning  of  May,  and  his  term  of  oc- 
cupation at  the  house  in  Forest  Road  expired  in  June.  If  he  renew- 
ed it  (and  I  had  reasons,  shortly  to  be  mentioned,  for  anticipating 
that  he  would),  I  might  be  certain  of  his  not  escaping  me.  But  if 
by  any  chance  he  disappointed  my  expectations  and  left  the  coun- 
try, then  I  had  no  time  to  lose  in  arming  myself  to  meet  him  as  I 
best  might. 

In  the  first  fullness  of  my  new  happiness,  there  had  been  moments 
when  my  resolution  faltered — moments  when  I  was  tempted  to  be 
safely  content,  now  that  the  dearest  aspiration  of  my  life  was  ful- 
filled in  the  possession  of  Laura's  love.    For  the  first  time  I  thought 


404  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

faint-lieartcdly  of  the  greatness  of  the  risk ;  of  the  adverse  chances 
arrayed  against  me  ;  of  tlie  fair  promise  of  our  new  lives,  and  of  the 
peril  in  which  I  might  place  the  happiness  which  we  had  so  hardly 
earned.  Yes  I  let  me  own  it  honestly.  For  a  brief  time  I  wandered, 
in  the  sweet  guiding  of  love,  far  from  the  purpose  to  which  I  had 
been  true,  under  sterner  discipline  and  in  darker  days.  Innocently 
Laura  had  tempted  me  aside  from  the  hard  path — innocently  she  was 
destined  to  lead  me  back  again. 

At  times  dreams  of  the  terrible  past  still  disconnectedly  recalled 
to  her,  in  the  mystery  of  sleep,  the  events  of  which  her  waking  mem- 
ory had  lost  all  trace.  One  night  (barely  two  weeks  after  our  mar- 
riage), when  I  was  watching  her  at  rest,  I  saw  the  tears  come  slowly 
through  her  closed  eyelids,  I  heard  the  faint  murmuring  words  es- 
cape her  which  told  me  that  her  spirit  was  back  again  on  the  fatal 
journey  from  Blackwater  Park,  That  unconscious  apjoeal,  so  touch- 
ing and  so  awful  in  the  sacredness  of  her  sleep,  ran  through  me  like 
fire.  The  next  day  was  the  day  we  came  back  to  London — the  day 
when  my  resolution  returned  to  me  with  tenfold  strength. 

The  first  necessity  was  to  know  something  of  the  man.  Thus  far 
the  true  story  of  his  life  was  an  impenetrable  mystery  to  me. 

I  ]>egan  with  such  scanty  sources  of  infoi*mation  as  were  at  my 
own  disposal.  The  important  narrative  written  by  Mr.  Frederick 
FairlJe  (which  ]Marian  had  obtained  by  following  the  directions  I 
had  given  to  her  in  the  winter)  proved  to  be  of  no  service  to  the 
special  object  with  which  I  now  looked  at  it.  While  reading  it,  I 
reconsidered  the  disclosure  revealed  to  me  by  Mrs.  Clements  of  the 
series  of  deceptions  which  had  brought  Anne  Catherick  to  London, 
and  which  had  there  devoted  her  to  the  interests  of  the  conspiracy. 
Here,  again,  the  Count  had  not  openly  committed  himself;  here, 
again,  he  was,  to  all  practical  purpose,  out  of  my  reach. 

I  next  returned  to  Marian's  journal  at  Blackwater  Park.  At  my 
request  she  road  to  me  again  a  passage  which  referred  to  her  past 
curiosity  about  the  Count,  and  to  the  few  particulars  which  she  had 
discovered  relating  to  him. 

The  passage  to  which  I  allude  occurs  in  that  part  of  her  journal 
which  delineates  his  character  and  his  personal  appearance.  She 
descrilK's  him  as  "  not  having  crossed  the  frontiers  of  his  native 
country  for  years  past " — as  "  anxious  to  know  if  any  Italian  gentle- 
men were  settled  in  the  nearest  town  to  Blackwater  Park '' — as  "re- 
ceiving letters  with  all  sorts  of  odd  stamps  on  them,  and  one  with  a 
larm%  official-looking  seal  on  it."  She  is  inclined  to  consider  that 
his  long  absence  from  his  native  country  may  be  accounted  for  by 
assuming  that  he  is  a  political  exile.  But  she  is,  on  the  other  hand, 
unable  to  reconcile  this  idea  with  the  reception  of  the  letter  from 
abroad  bearing  "  the  large,  official-looking  seal  ^ — letters  from  the 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  495 

Continent  addressed  to  political  exiles  being  usually  the  last  to  court 
attention  from  foreign  post-offices  in  that  way. 

The  considerations  thus  presented  to  me  in  the  diary,  joined  to 
certain  surmises  of  my  own  that  grew  out  of  them,  suggested  a  con- 
clusion which  I  wondered  I  had  not  arrived  at  before.  I  now  said 
to  myself^ — what  Laura  had  once  said  to  i^Iarian  at  Blackwater  Park  ; 
what  Madame  Fosco  had  overheard  by  listening  at  the  door — the 
Count  is  a  Spy  I 

Laura  had  applied  the  word  to  him  at  hazard,  in  natural  anger  at 
his  proceedings  toward  herself.  /  applied  it  to  him,  with  the  de- 
liberate conviction  that  his  vocation  in  life  was  the  vocation  of  a 
Spy.  On  this  assumption,  the  reason  for  his  extraordinary  stay  in 
England,  so  long  after  the  objects  of  the  conspiracy  had  been  gain- 
ed, became,  to  my  mind,  quite  intelligible. 

The  year  of  which  I  am  now  writing  was  the  year  of  the  famous 
Crystal  Palace  Exhibition  in  Hyde  Park.  Foreigners,  in  unusually 
large  numbers,  had  arrived  already,  and  were  still  arriving  in  En- 
gland. Men  were  among  us  by  hundreds,  whom  the  ceaseless  dis- 
trustfulness  of  their  governments  had  followed  privately,  by  means 
of  appointed  agents,  to  our  shores.  My  surmises  did  not  for  a  mo- 
ment class  a  man  of  the  Count's  abilities  and  social  position  with 
the  ordinary  rank  and  file  of  foreign  spies.  I  suspected  him  of  hold- 
ing a  position  of  authority,  of  being  intrusted  by  the  government 
which  he  secretly  served  with  the  organization  and  management  of 
agents  specially  employed  in  this  country,  both  men  and  women  ; 
and  I  believed  Mrs.  Rubelle,  who  had  been  so  opportunely  found  to 
act  as  nurse  at  Blackwater  Park,  to  be,  in  all  probability,  one  of  the 
number. 

Assuming  that  this  idea  of  mine  had  a  foundation  in  truth,  the 
position  of  the  Count  might  prove  to  be  more  r.ssailable  than  I  had 
hitherto  ventured  to  hope.  To  whom  could  I  apply  to  know  something 
more  of  the  man's  history,  and  of  the  man  himself,  than  I  knew  now  ? 

In  this  emergency,  it  naturally  occurred  to  my  mind  that  a  coun- 
tryman of  his  own  on  whom  I  could  rely  might  be  the  fittest  person 
to  help  me.  The  first  man  whom  I  thought  of,  under  these  circum- 
stances, was  also  the  only  Italian  with  whom  I  was  intimately  ac- 
quainted— my  quaint  little  friend.  Professor  Pesca. 

The  professor  has  been  so  long  absent  from  these  pages,  that  hs 
has  run  some  risk  of  being  forgotten  altogether. 

It  is  the  necessary  law  of  such  a  story  as  mine  that  the  persons 
concerned  in  it  only  appear  when  the  course  of  events  takes  them 
up ;  they  come  and  go,  not  by  favor  of  my  jjersonal  })artiality,  but 
by  right  of  their  direct  connection  with  the  circumstances  to  be  de- 
tailed.   For  this  reason,  not  Pesca  only,  but  my  mother  and  sister  a.«i 


496  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

well,  have  been  left  far  in  the  background  of  the  narrative.  My 
visits  to  the  Hampstead  cottage ;  my  mother's  belief  in  the  denial 
of  Laura's  identity  which  the  conspiracy  had  accomplished ;  my  vain 
efforts  to  overcome  the  prejudice,  on  her  part  and  on  my  sisters,  to 
which,  in  their  jealous  affection  for  me,  they  both  continued  to  ad- 
here ;  tlic  painful  necessity  which  that  prejudice  imposed  on  me  of 
concealing  my  marriage  from  them  till  they  had  learned  t©  do  jus- 
tice to  my  wife — all  tlicse  little  domestic  occurrences  have  been  left 
unrecorded,  because  they  were  not  essential  to  the  main  interest  of 
the  story.  It  is  nothing  that  they  added  to  my  anxieties  and  imbit- 
tered  my  disappointments — the  steady  march  of  events  has  inexora- 
bly passed  them  by. 

For  the  same  reason,  I  have  said  nothing  here  of  the  consolation 
that  I  found  in  Pesca's  brotherly  affection  for  me,  when  I  saw  him 
again  after  the  sudden  cessation  of  my  residence  at  Limmeridge 
House.  I  have  not  recorded  the  fidelity  with  which  my  warm- 
hearted little  friend  followed  me  to  the  place  of  embarkation  when 
I  sailed  for  Central  America,  or  the  noisy  transport  of  joy  with 
wliich  he  received  me  when  we  next  met  in  London.  If  I  had  felt 
justified  in  accepting  the  offers  of  service  which  he  made  to  me  on 
my  return,  he  would  have  appeared  again  long  ere  this.  But  though 
I  knew  that  his  honor  and  his  courage  were  to  be  implicitly  relied 
on,  I  was  not  so  sure  that  his  discretion  was  to  be  trusted ;  and,  for 
that  reason  only,  I  followed  the  course  of  all  my  inquiries  alone. 
It  will  now  be  sufficiently  understood  that  Pesca  was  not  separated 
from  all  connection  with  me  and  my  interests,  although  he  has  hith- 
erto been  separated  from  all  connection  with  the  prog^-ess  of  this 
narrative.  He  was  as  true  and  as  ready  a  friend  of  mine  still  as 
ever  he  had  been  in  his  life. 

-'  Before  I  summoned  Pesca  to  my  assistance,  it  Avas  necessary  to 
see  for  myself  what  sort  of  man  I  had  to  deal  with.  Up  to  this 
time,  I  had  never  once  set  eyes  on  Count  Fosco. 

Three  days  after  my  return  with  Laura  and  Marian  to  London,  I 
set  forth  alone  for  Forest  Road,  St.  John's  Wood,  between  ten  and 
eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  It  was  a  fine  day  —  I  had  some 
hours  to  spare — and  I  thought  it  likely,  if  I  waited  a  little  for  him, 
that  the  Count  might  be  tempted  out.  I  had  no  great  reason  to 
fear  the  chance  of  his  recognizing  me  in  the  day-time,  for  the  only 
occasion  when  I  had  been  seen  by  him  was  the  occasion  on  which 
he  had  followed  me  home  at  night. 

No  one  appeared  at  the  windows  in  the  front  of  the  house.  I 
walked  down  a  turning  which  ran  past  the  side  of  it,  and  looked 
over  the  low  garden  wall.  One  of  the  back  windows  on  the  lower 
floor  was  tlirown  up,  and  a  net  was  stretched  across  the  opening. 


jmji' 


iu=- 


mmi 


'^^Wk 


MY   rOOK    LITTLE    MAN  I       HE    SAID 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  499 

I  saw  nol)ody ;  but  I  heard,  in  the  room,  first  a  shrill  whistling  and 
singing  of  birds — then  the  deep  ringing  voice  which  Marian's  de- 
scription had  made  familiar  to  me.  "  Come  out  on  my  little  finger, 
my  pret-pret-pretties  I"  cried  the  voice.  "  Come  out,  and  hop  up 
stairs  !  One,  two,  three  —  and  up  !  Three,  two,  one  —  and  down  I 
One,  two,  three — twit-twit-twit-tweet  I'  The  Count  was  exercising 
his  canaries,  as  he  used  to  exercise  them  in  Marian's  time,  at  Black- 
water  Park. 

I  waited  a  little  while,  and  the  singing  and  the  whistling  ceased. 
"  Come,  kiss  me,  my  pretties  1"'  said  the  deep  voice.  There  w^as  a 
responsive  twittering  and  chirping — a  lov/,  oily  laugh — a  silence  of 
a  minute  or  so — and  then  I  heard  the  opening  of  the  house  door. 
I  turned,  and  retraced  my  steps.  The  magnificent  melody  of  the 
Prayer  in  Rossini's  ''  Moses,"  sung  in  a  sonorous  bass  voice,  rose 
grandly  through  the  suburban  silence  of  the  place.  The  front  gar- 
den gate  opened  and  closed.     The  Count  had  come  out. 

He  crossed  the  road,  and  walked  toward  the  western  boundary 
of  tlie  Regent's  Park.  I  kept  on  my  own  side  of  the  way,  a  little 
behind  him,  and  walked  in  that  direction  also. 

Marian  had  prepared  me  for  his  high  stature,  his  monstrous  cor- 
pulence, and  his  ostentatious  mourning  garments — but  not  for  the 
horrible  freshness  and  cheerfulness  and  ^dtality  of  the  man.  He 
carried  his  sixty  years  as  if  they  had  been  fewer  than  forty.  He 
sauntered  along,  wearing  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  with  a  light 
jaunty  step,  swinging  his  big  stick,  humming  to  himself;  looking 
up,  from  time  to  time,  at  the  houses  and  gardens  on  either  side  of 
him  with  superb,  smiling  patronage.  If  a  stranger  had  been  told 
that  the  whole  neighborhood  belonged  to  him,  that  stranger  would 
not  have  been  suq^rised  to  hear  it.  He  never  looked  back  :  he  paid 
no  apparent  attention  to  me,  no  apparent  attention  to  any  one  who 
passed  him  on  his  own  side  of  the  road  —  except,  now  and  then, 
when  he  smiled  and  smirked,  witli  an  easy,  paternal  good-humor,  at 
the  nursery-maids  and  the  children  vrhom  he  met.  In  this  way,  he 
led  me  on,  till  we  reached  a  colony  of  shops  outside  the  western  ter- 
races of  the  Park. 

Here  he  stopped  at  a  pastry-cook's,  went  in  (probably  to  give  an 
order),  and  came  out  again  immediately  with  a  tart  in  his  hand. 
An  Italian  was  grinding  an  organ  before  the  shop,  and  a  miserable 
little  shriveled  monkey  was  sitting  on  the  instrument.  The  Count 
stopped,  bit  a  piece  for  himself  out  of  the  tart,  and  gravely  handed 
the  rest  to  the  monkey.  ''  My  poor  little  man !''  he  said,  with  gro- 
tesque tenderness  ;  '"  you  look  hungry.  In  the  sacred  name  of  hu- 
manity, I  ofer  you  some  lunch  1*'  The  organ-grinder  piteously  put 
in  his  claim  to  a  penny  from  the  benevolent  stranger.  The  Count 
shnigged  his  shoulders  contemptuously,  and  passed  on. 


600  riii-:  woman  tn  white. 

We  reached  tlie  streets  and  the  better  class  of  shops  between  the 
New  Road  and  Oxford  Street.  The  Count  stopped  again,  and  en- 
tered a  small  optician's  shop,  with  an  inscription  in  the  window, 
announcing  that  repairs  were  neatly  executed  inside.  He  came  out 
again,  with  an  opera-glass  in  his  hand,  walked  a  few  paces  on,  and 
stopped  to  look  at  a  hill  of  the  Opera,  placed  outside  a  music-seller's 
shop.  He  read  the  bill  attentively,  considered  a  moment,  and  then 
hailed  an  empty  cab  as  it  passed  him.  "  Opera-box-office,"  he  said 
to  the  man,  and  was  driven  away. 

I  crossed  the  road,  and  looked  at  the  bill  in  my  turn.  The  per- 
formance announced  was  ''Lucrezia  Borgia,"  and  it  was  to  take 
place  that  evening.  The  opera -glass  in  the  Count's  hand,  his  care- 
ful reading  of  the  bill,  and  his  direction  to  the  cabman,  all  suggested 
that  he  pro2iosed  making  one  of  the  audience.  I  had  the  means  of 
getting  an  admission  for  myself  and  a  friend,  to  the  pit,  by  applying 
to  one  of  the  scene-painters  attached  to  the  theatre,  with  whom  I 
liad  been  well  acquainted  in  past  times.  There  was  a  chance,  at 
least,  that  the  Count  might  be  easily  visible  among  the  audience,  to 
me,  and  to  any  one  with  me  ;  and  in  this  case  I  had  the  means  of 
ascertaining  whether  Pesca  knew  his  countrj'man  or  not  that  very 
night. 

This  consideration  at  once  decided  the  disposal  of  my  evening. 
I  procured  the  tickets,  leaving  a  note  at  the  Professor's  lodgings  on 
the  way.  At  a  quarter  to  eight  I  called  to  take  him  with  me  to  the 
theatre.  My  little  friend  was  in  a  state  of  the  highest  excitement, 
with  a  festive  flower  in  his  button-hole,  and  the  largest  opera-glass 
I  ever  saw  hugged  up  under  his  arm. 

"Are  you  ready  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Right-all-right,''  said  Pesca. 

We  started  for  the  theatre. 

V. 

The  last  notes  of  the  introduction  to  the  opera  were  being  played, 
and  the  seats  in  the  pit  were  all  filled,  when  Pesca  and  I  reached 
the  theatre. 

There  was  plenty  of  room,  however,  in  the  passage  that  ran  round 
the  pit — precisely  the  position  best  calculated  to  answer  the  purpose 
for  which  I  was  attending  the  performance.  I  went  first  to  the  bar- 
rier separating  us  from  the  stalls,  and  looked  for  the  Count  in  that 
part  of  the  theatre.  He  was  not  there.  Returning  along  the  pas- 
sage on  the  left  hand  side  from  the  stage,  and  looking  about  me 
attentively,  I  discovered  him  in  the  pit.  He  occupied  an  excellent 
place,  some  twelve  or  fourteen  seats  from  the  end  of  a  bench,  within 
three  rows  of  the  stalls.  I  placed  myself  exactly  on  a  line  with 
him ;  Pesca  standing  by  my  side.     The  professor  was  not  yet  aware 


THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE.  501 

of  the  purpose  for  which  I  had  brought  him  to  the  theatre,  and  he 
was  rather  surj^rised  that  we  did  not  move  nearer  to  the  stage. 

The  curtain  rose,  and  the  opera  began. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  the  first  act  we  remained  in  our  posi- 
tion—  the  Count,  absorbed  by  the  orchestra  and  the  stage,  never 
casting  so  much  as  a  chance  glance  at  us.  Not  a  note  of  Donizetti's 
delicious  music  was  lost  on  him.  There  he  sat,  high  above  his 
neighbors,  smiling,  and  nodding  his  great  head  enjoyingly,  from 
time  to  time.  When  the  people  near  him  applauded  the  close  of  an 
air  (as  an  English  audience  in  such  circumstances  always  icill  ap- 
plaud), without  the  least  consideration  for  the  orchestral  movement 
which  immediately  followed  it,  he  looked  round  at  them  with  an 
exjDression  of  compassionate  remonstrance,  and  held  up  one  hand 
with  a  gesture  of  polite  entreaty.  At  the  more  refined  passages  of 
the  singing,  at  the  more  delicate  phrases  of  the  music,  which  passed 
unapplauded  by  others,  his  fat  hands,  adorned  with  perfectly-fitting 
black  kid  gloves,  softly  patted  each  other,  in  token  of  the  cultivated 
appreciation  of  a  musical  man.  At  such  times  his  oily  murmur  of 
approval,  "  Bravo  !  Bra-a-a-a  I''  hummed  through  the  silence,  like 
the  purring  of  a  great  cat.  His  immediate  neighbors  on  either  side 
— hearty,  ruddy-faced  people  from  the  country,  basking  amazedly  in 
the  sunshine  of  fashionable  London — seeing  and  hearing  him,  began 
to  follow  his  lead.  Many  a  burst  of  applause  from  the  pit  that 
night  started  from  the  soft,  comfortable  patting  of  the  black-gloved 
hands.  The  man's  voracious  vanity  devoured  this  implied  tribute 
to  his  local  and  critical  supremacy,  with  an  appearance  of  tlie  high- 
est relish.  Smiles  rippled  continuously  over  his  fat  face.  Ke  look- 
ed about  him,  at  the  pauses  in  the  music,  serenely  satisfied  with  him- 
self and  his  fellow-creatures.  "  Yes  !  yes !  these  barbarous  English 
people  are  learning  something  from  me.  Here,  there,  and  every- 
where, I — Fosco — am  an  Influence  that  is  felt,  a  Man  who  sits  su- 
preme 1"  If  ever  face  spoke,  his  face  spoke  then — and  that  was  its 
language. 

The  curtain  fell  on  the  first  act ;  and  the  audience  rose  to  look 
about  them.  This  was  the  time  I  had  waited  for — the  time  to  try 
if  Pesca  knew  him. 

He  rose  with  the  rest,  and  surveyed  the  occupants  of  the  boxes 
grandly  with  his  opera -glass.  At  first  his  back  was  toward  us  ; 
but  he  turned  round  in  time  to  our  side  of  the  theatre,  and  looked 
at  the  boxes  above  us ;  using  his  glass  for  a  few  minutes — then  re- 
moving it,  but  still  continuing  to  look  up.  This  was  the  moment  I 
chose,  when  his  full  face  was  in  view,  for  directing  Pesca's  attention 
to  him. 

''  Do  you  know  that  man  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Which  man,  mv  friend  V 


502  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

"  The  tall  fat  man  standing  there,  with  his  face  toward  us." 

Pcsca  raised  himself  on  tiptoe,  and  looked  at  the  Count. 

"  No,"  said  the  Professor.  "  The  big  fat  man  is  a  stranger  to  me. 
Is  he  famous  ?     Why  do  you  point  him  out  ?" 

"  Because  I  have  particular  reasons  for  wishing  to  know  some- 
thing of  him.  lie  is  a  countryman  of  yours ;  his  name  is  Count 
Fosco.     Do  you  know  that  name  ?" 

"  Not  I,  Walter.     Neither  the  name  nor  the  man  is  known  to  me." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  you  don't  recognize  him  ?  Look  again  ;  look 
carefully.  I  will  tell  you  why  I  am  so  anxious  about  it  when  wc 
leave  the  theatre.  Stop !  let  me  help  you  up  here,  where  you  can 
see  him  better." 

I  helped  the  little  man  to  perch  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  raised 
dais  upon  which  the  pit  seats  were  all  placed.  Here  his  small  stat- 
ure was  no  hinderance  to  him ;  here  he  could  see  over  the  heads  of 
the  ladies  who  were  seated  near  the  outermost  part  of  the  bench. 

A  slim,  light-haired  man,  standing  by  us,  Mdiom  I  had  not  noticed 
before — a  man  with  a  scar  on  his  left  cheek — looked  attentively  at 
Pesca  as  I  helped  him  up,  and  then  looked  still  more  attentively, 
following  the  direction  of  Pesca's  eyes,  at  the  Count.  Our  conver- 
sation might  have  reached  his  ears,  and  might,  as  it  struck  me,  have 
roused  his  curiosity. 

Meanwhile  Pesca  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly  on  the  broad,  full,  smil- 
ing face,  turned  a  little  upward,  exactly  opposite  to  him. 

"  No,"  he  said ;  "  I  have  never  set  my  two  eyes  on  that  big  fat 
man  before  in  all  my  life." 

As  he  spoke  the  Count  looked  downward  toward  the  boxes  be- 
hind us  on  the  pit  tier. 

The  eyes  of  the  two  Italians  met. 

The  instant  before,  I  had  been  perfectly  satisfied,  from  his  own  re- 
iterated assertion,  that  Pesca  did  not  know  the  Count.  The  instant 
afterward,  I  was  equally  certain  that  the  Count  knew  Pesca ! 

Knew  him;  and  —  more  surprising  still — feared  him  as  well  I 
There  was  no  mistaking  the  change  that  passed  over  the  villain's 
face.  The  leaden  hue  that  altered  his  yellow  complexion  in  a  mo- 
ment, the  sudden  rigidity  of  all  his  features,  the  furtive  scrutiny  of 
his  cold  gray  eyes,  the  motionless  stillness  of  him  from  head  to  foot, 
told  their  own  tale.  A  mortal  dread  had  mastered  him,  body  and 
soul — and  his  recognition  of  Pesca  was  the  cause  of  it ! 

The  slim  man  with  the  scar  on  his  cheek  was  still  close  by  us. 
He  had  apparently  drawn  his  inference  from  the  efi"ect  produced  on 
the  Count  by  the  sight  of  Pesca,  as  I  had  drawn  mine.  lie  was  a 
mild,  gentleman-like  man,  looking  like  a  foreigner;  and  his  interest 
in  our  proceedings  was  not  expressed  in  any  thing  approaching  to 
an  offensive  manner. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  503 

For  my  own  part,  I  was  so  startled  by  the  change  in  tlie  Count's 
face,  so  astounded  at  the  entirely  unexpected  turn  which  events  had 
taken,  that  I  knew  neither  what  to  say  or  do  next.  Pesca  roused 
me  by  stepping  back  to  his  former  place  at  my  side,  and  speaking 
first. 

"  How  the  fat  man  stares  I"  he  exclaimed.  ''  Is  it  at  me  ?  Am  / 
famous  ?     How  can  he  know  me,  -when  I  don't  know  him  ?" 

I  kept  my  eye  still  on  the  Count.  I  saw  him  move  for  the  first 
time  when  Pesca  moved,  so  as  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  little  man,  in 
the  lower  position  in  which  he  now  stood.  I  was  curious  to  see 
what  would  happen  if  Pesca's  attention,  under  these  circumstances, 
was  withdrawn  from  him ;  and  I  accordingly  asked  the  Professor  if 
he  recognized  any  of  his  pupils  that  evening  among  the  ladies  in 
the  boxes.  Pesca  immediately  raised  the  large  opera-glass  to  his 
eyes,  and  moved  it  slowly  all  round  the  upper  part  of  the  theatre, 
searching  for  his  pupils  with  the  most  conscientious  scrutiny. 

The  moment  he  showed  himself  to  be  thus  engaged,  the  Count 
turned  round,  slipped  past  the  persons  who  occupied  seats  on  the 
farther  side  of  him  from  where  we  stood,  and  disappeared  in  the 
middle  passage  down  the  centre  of  the  pit.  I  caught  Pesca  by  the 
arm ;  and,  to  his  inexpressible  astonishment,  hurried  him  round  with 
me  to  the  back  of  the  pit,  to  intercept  the  Count  before  he  could  get 
to  the  door.  Somewhat  to  my  surprise,  the  slim  man  hastened  out 
before  us,  avoiding  a  stoppage  caused  by  some  people  on  our  side 
of  the  pit  leaving  their  places,  by  which  Pesca  and  myself  were  de- 
layed. When  we  reached  the  lobby  the  Count  had  disappeared,  and 
the  foreigner  with  the  scar  was  gone  too. 

''  Come  home,"  I  said ;  "  come  home,  Pesca,  to  your  lodgings.  I 
must  speak  to  you  in  private — I  must  speak  directly." 

"  My-soul-bless-my-soul  I"  cried  the  Professor,  in  a  state  of  the  ex- 
tremest  bewilderment.     ''  What  on  earth  is  the  matter  ?*' 

I  walked  on  rapidly,  without  answering.  The  circumstances 
under  which  the  Count  had  left  the  theatre  suggested  to  me  that 
his  extraordinary  anxieliy  to  escape  Pesca  might  carry  him  to  further 
extremities  still.  He  might  escape  me^  too,  by  leaving  Londcn.  I 
doubted  the  future,  if  I  allowed  him  so  much  as  a  day's  freedom  to 
act  as  he  pleased.  And  I  doubted  that  foreign  stranger  who  had 
got  the  start  of  us,  and  whom  I  suspected  of  intentionally  following 
him  out. 

With  this  double  distrust  in  my  mind,  I  was  not  long  in  making 
Pesca  understand  what  I  wanted.  As  soon  as  we  two  were  alone  in 
his  toom,  I  increased  his  confusion  and  amazement  a  hundred-fold 
by  telling  him  what  my  purpose  was,  as  plainly  and  unreservedly  as 
I  have  acknowledged  it  here. 

"  My  friend,  what  can  I  do  V  cried  the  Professor,  piteously  appeal- 


504  THE    WOMAN    IN    "WHITE. 

ing  to  me  witli  both  liands,  "  Deuce-what-the-deucc  I  how  can  I 
help  you,  Walter,  when  I  don't  know  the  man  ?'' 

"7/<?  knows  you — he  is  afraid  of  you — he  has  left  the  theatre  to 
escape  you.  Pesca  I  there  must  be  a  reason  for  this.  Look  back 
into  your  own  life  before  you  came  to  England.  You  left  Italy,  as 
you  liave  told  me  yourself,  for  political  reasons.  You  have  never 
mentioned  those  reasons  to  me ;  and  I  don't  inquire  into  them  now. 
I  only  ask  you  to  consult  your  own  recollections,  and  to  say  if  they 
suggest  no  past  cause  for  the  terror  which  the  first  sight  of  you  pro- 
duced in  that  man." 

To  my  unutterable  surprise,  these  words,  harmless  as  they  ap- 
peared to  me,  produced  the  same  astounding  efiect  on  Pesca  which 
the  fiight  of  Pesca  had  produced  on  the  Count.  The  rosy  face  of 
my  little  friend  whitened  in  an  instant ;  and  he  drew  back  from  me 
slowly,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

'*  Walter  I''  he  said.     '•  You  don't  know  what  you  ask." 

He  spoke  in  a  whisper — he  looked  at  me  as  if  I  had  suddenly  re- 
vealed to  him  some  hidden  danger  to  both  of  us.  In  less  than  one 
minute  of  time,  he  was  so  altered  from  the  easy,  lively,  quaint  little 
man  of  all  my  past  experience,  that  if  I  had  met  him  in  the  street, 
changed  as  I  saw  him  now,  I  should  most  certainly  not  have  known 
him  again. 

''  Forgive  me,  if  I  have  unintentionally  pained  and  shocked  you," 
I  replied.  ''Remember  the  cruel  wrong  my  wife  has  suffered  at 
Count  Fosco's  hands.  Remember  that  the  wrong  can  never  be  re- 
dressed, unless  the  means  are  in  my  power  of  forcing  him  to  do  her 
justice.  I  spoke  in  her  interests,  Pesca — I  ask  you  again  to  forgive 
me — I  can  say  no  more." 

I  rose  to  go.     He  stopped  me  before  I  reached  the  door. 

"  Wait,"  he  said.  "  You  have  shaken  me  from  head  to  foot.  You 
don't  know  how  I  left  my  country,  and  why  I  left  my  country.  Let 
me  compose  myself— let  me  think,  if  I  can.'' 

I  returned  to  my  chair.  He  walked  ujd  and  down  the  room,  talk- 
ing to  himself  incoherently  in  his  own  language.  After  several 
turns  backward  and  forward,  he  suddenly  came  up  to  me,  and  laid 
his  little  hands  with  a  strange  tenderness  and  solemnity  on  my 
breast. 

"  On  your  heart  and  soul,  Walter,"  he  said,  "  is  there  no  other  way 
to  get  to  that  man  but  the  chance-way  through  ?«€.?" 

"  There  is  no  other  way,"  I  answered. 

He  left  me  again ;  opened  the  door  of  the  room  and  looked  out 
cautiously  into  tlie  passage  ;  closed  it  once  more,  and  came  back. 

''  You  M'on  your  right  over  me,  Walter,"  he  said,  ''  on  the  day 
when  you  saved  my  life.  It  was  yours  from  that  moment,  when 
you  ])lcased  to  take  it.     Take  it  now.     Yes !  I  mean  what  I  say.. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  505 

My  next  words,  as  true  as  the  good  God  is  above  us,  will  put  my 
life  into  your  hands." 

The  trembling  earnestness  with  which  he  uttered  this  extraor- 
dinary warning  carried  with  it  to  my  mind  the  conviction  that  he 
spoke  the  truth. 

"  Mind  this  !"  he  went  on,  shaking  his  hands  at  me  in  the  vehe- 
mence of  his  agitation,  "  I  hold  no  thread  in  my  own  mind,  between 
that  man,  Fosco,  and  the  past  time  which  I  call  back  to  me,  for 
your  sake.  If  tjou  find  the  thread,  keep  it  to  yourself— tell  mo 
nothing — on  my  knees,  I  beg  and  pray,  let  me  be  ignorant,  let  me 
be  innocent,  let  me  be  blind  to  all  the  future,  as  I  am  now  I" 

He  snid  a  few  words  more,  hesitatingly  and  disconnectedly,  then 
stopped  again. 

I  saw  that  the  effort  of  expressing  himself  in  English,  on  an  occa- 
sion too  serious  to  permit  him  the  use  of  the  quaint  turns  and 
phrases  of  his  ordinary  vocabulary,  was  painfully  iDC-!:pa:iTg'"  the 
difficulty  he  had  felt  from  the  first  in  speaking. vo  me  at  all.  Hav- 
ing learned  to  read  and  understand  his  native  'auguage  (though  not 
to  speak  it)  in  the  earlier  days  of  cur  intimate  companionship,  I 
now  suggested  to  him  that  he  should  express  himself  in  Italian, 
while  I  used  English  in  putting  any  questions  which  might  be  nec- 
essary to  my  enlightenment.  He  accepted  the  proposal.  In  his 
smooth-flowing  language — spoken  with  a  vehement  agitation  which 
betrayed  itself  in  the  perpetual  working  of  his  features,  in  the  wild- 
ness  and  the  suddenness  of  his  foreign  gesticulations,  but  never  in 
the  raising  of  his  voice — I  now  heard  the  words  which  aiTned  me  to 
meet  the  last  struggle  that  is  left  for  this  story  to  record.* 

"  You  know  nothing  of  my  motive  for  leaving  Italy,"  he  began, 
"  except  that  it  was  for  political  reasons.  If  I  had  been  driven  to 
this  country  by  the  persecution  of  my  government,  I  should  not 
have  kept  those  reasons  a  secret  from  you  or  from  any  one.  I  have 
concealed  them  because  no  government  authority  has  pronounced 
the  sentence  of  my  exile.  You  have  heard,  Walter,  of  the  political 
Societies  that  are  hidden  in  every  great  city  on  the  continent  of 
Europe  ?  To  one  of  those  Societies  I  belonged  in  Italy — and  belong 
still,  in  England.  "When  I  came  to  this  country,  I  came  by  the  di- 
rection of  my  Chief.  I  was  overzealous,  in  my  younger  time  ;  I  ran 
the  risk  of  compromising  myself  and  others.  For  those  reasons,  I 
was  ordered  to  emigrate  to  England,  and  to  wait.  I  emigrated — 1 
have  waited — I  wait,  still.     To-morrow  I  may  be  called  away :  ten 


'  It  is  only  right  to  meiitiou  here,  that  I  repeat  Pesca's  statement  to  me,  with  the 
careful  suppressions  and  alterations  which  the  serious  nature  of  the  subject  and  my 
own  sense  of  duty  to  my  friend  demand.  My  first  and  last  concealments  from  the 
reader  are  those  which  caution  renders  absolutely  necessary  iu  this  portion  of  the 
narrative. 


500  THE    WOMAN    IX    -WHITE. 

years  hence  I  may  be  called  away.  It  is  all  one  to  me — I  am  here, 
I  support  myself  by  teaching,  and  I  wait.  I  violate  no  oath  (you 
shall  hear  why  presently)  in  making  my  confidence  complete  by  tell- 
ing you  the  name  of  the  Society  to  which  I  belong.  All  I  do  is  to 
put  my  life  in  your  hands.  If  what  I  say  to  you  now  is  ever  known 
by  others  to  have  passed  my  lips,  as  certainly  as  we  two  sit  here,  I 
am  a  dead  man." 

He  whispered  the  next  words  in  my  ear.  I  keep  the  secret  whicli 
he  thus  communicated.  The  Society  to  which  he  belonged  will  In; 
sufficiently  individualized  for  the  pui-pose  of  these  pages  if  I  call 
it  '•  The  Brotherhood,"  on  the  few  occasions  when  any  reference  to 
the  subject  will  be  needed  in  this  place. 

"The  object  of  the  Brotherhood,"  Pesca  went  on,  "is,  briefly,  tli(3 
object  of  other  i^olitical  societies  of  the  same  sort — the  destruction 
of  tyranny,  and  the  assertion  of  the  rights  of  the  people.  The  prin- 
ciples of  the  Brotherhood  are  two.  So  long  as  a  man*s  life  is  useful, 
or  even  harmless  Gily,  he  has  the  right  to  enjoy  it.  But  if  his  life 
inflicts  injury  on  the  well-being  of  his  fellow-men,  from  that  momenu 
he  forfeits  the  right,  and  it  _is  not  only  no  crime,  but  a  positive 
merit  to  deprive  him  of  it.  It  is' not  for  iTie  +o  say  in  what  frightful 
circumstances  of  oppression  and  sufi"ering  this  Society  took  its  rise. 
It  is  not  for  you  to  say — you  Englishmen,  who  have  conquered  your 
freedom  so  long  ago,  that  you  have  conveniently  forgotten  what 
blood  you  shed,  and  what  extremities  you  proceeded  to,  in  the  con- 
quering— it  is  not  for  you  to  say  how  far  the  worst  of  all  exasper- 
ations may,  or  may  not,  carry  the  maddened  men  of  an  enslaved 
nation.  Tlie  iron  that  has  entered  into  our  souls  has  gone  too  deep 
for  you  to  find  it.  Leave  the  refugee  alone  I  Laugh  at  him,  dis- 
trust him,  open  your  eyes  in  wonder  at  that  secret  self  which 
smoulders  in  him,  sometimes  under  the  every-day  respectability  and 
tranquillity  of  a  man  like  me ;  sometimes  under  the  grinding  pov- 
erty, the  fierce  squalor,  of  men  less  lucky,  less  pliable,  less  patient 
than  I  am — but  judge  us  not  I  In  the  time  of  your  first  Charles  you 
might  have  done  us  justice ;  the  long  luxury  of  your  own  freedom 
has  made  you  incapable  of  doing  us  justice  now." 

All  the  deepest  feelings  of  his  nature  seemed  to  force  themselves 
to  the  surface  in  those  words ;  all  his  heart  was  poured  out  to  me, 
for  the  first  time  in  our  lives — but  still  his  voice  never  rose ;  still 
Ills  dread  of  the  terrible  revelation  he  was  making  to  me  never  left 
him. 

"  So  fiir,"  he  resumed,  "  you  think  the  Society  like  other  Societies. 
Its  ol)ject  (in  your  English  opinion)  is  anarchy  and  revolution.  It 
takes  the  life  of  a  ])ad  King  or  a  bad  Minister,  as  if  the  one  and  the 
other  were  dangerous  wild  beasts  to  l)e  shot  at  the  first  oj)portunity. 
I  grant  yon  llil-;.     But  the  laws  of  the  Brotherhood  are  th"  laws  of 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  507 

no  other  political  society  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  The  members  are 
not  known  to  one  another.  There  is  a  President  in  Italy ;  there  are 
Presidents  abroad.  Each  of  these  has  his  Secretary.  The  Presi- 
dents and  the  Secretaries  know  the  members  ;  but  the  members, 
among  themselves,  are  all  strangers,  until  their  Chiefs  see  fit,  in  the 
political  necessity  of  the  time,  or  in  the  private  necessity  of  the  So- 
ciety, to  make  them  known  to  each  other.  With  such  a  safeguard 
as  this,  there  is  no  oath  among  us  on  admittance.  We  are  iden- 
tified with  the  Brotherhood  l>y  a  secret  mark,  which  we  all  bear, 
which  lasts  while  our  lives  last.  We  are  told  to  go  about  our  ordi- 
nary business,  and  to  report  ourselves  to  the  President,  or  the  Sec- 
retary, four  times  a  year,  in  the  event  of  our  services  being  required. 
We  are  warned,  if  we  betray  the  Brotherhood,  or  if  we  injure  it  by 
serving  other  interests,  tliat  we  die  by  the  principles  of  the  Brother- 
hood—  die  by  the  hand  of  a  stranger  wdio  may  be  sent  from  the 
other  end  of  the  world  to  strike  the  blow — or  by  the  hand  of  our 
own  bosom-friend,  who  may  have  been  a  member  unknown  to  us 
through  all  the  years  of  our  intimacy.  Sometimes  the  death  is  de- 
layed ;  sometimes  it  follows  close  on  the  treacherj*.  It  is  our  first 
business  to  know  how  to  wait,  our  second  business  to  know  how  to 
obey  when  the  word  is  spoken.  Some  of  us  may  wait  our  lives 
through,  and  may  not  be  wanted.  Some  of  us  may  be  called  to  the 
work,  or  to  the  preparation  for  the  work,  the  very  day  of  our  ad- 
mission. I  myself — the  little,  easy,  cheeiful  man  you  know,  who 
of  his  own  accord  would  hardly  lift  up  his  handkerchief  to  strike 
down  the  fly  that  buzzes  about  his  face — I,  in  my  younger  time,  un- 
der provocation  so  dreadful  that  I  will  not  tell  you  of  it,  entered  the 
Brotherhood  by  an  impulse,  as  I  might  have  killed  myself  by  an  im- 
pulse. I  must  remain  in  it,  now — it  has  got  me,  whatever  I  may 
think  of  it  in  my  better  circumstances  and  my  cooler  manhood,  to 
my  dying  day.  While  I  was  still  in  Italy,  I  was  chosen  Secretary ; 
and  all  the  members  of  that  time,  who  were  brought  face  to  face 
with  my  President,  were  brought  face  to  face  also  with  rne.^^ 

I  began  to  understand  him ;  I  saw  the  end  toward  which  his 
extraordinary  disclosure  was  now  tending.  He  waited  a  moment, 
watching  me  earnestly — watching,  till  he  had  evidently  guessed 
what  was  passing  in  my  mind,  before  he  resumed. 

"  You  have  drawn  your  own  conclusions  already,"  he  said.  ''  I 
see  it  in  your  face.  Tell  me  nothing ;  keep  me  out  of  the  secret  of 
your  thoughts.  Let  me  make  my  one  last  sacrifice  of  myself,  for 
your  sake — and  then  have  done  with  this  subject,  never  to  return  to 
it  again." 

He  signed  to  me  not  to  answer  him — rose — removed  his  coat — • 
and  rolled  up  the  shirt-sleeve  on  his  left  arm. 

"  I  promised  you  that  this  confidence  should  be  complete,"  he 


508  THE    WOMAN    IN   WHITE. 

whispered,  speaking  close  at  my  ear,  with  his  eyes  looking  watch- 
fully  at  the  door.  "  Whatever  comes  of  it,  you  shall  not  reproach 
me  with  liaving  hidden  any  thing  from  you  which  it  was  necessary 
to  your  interests  to  know.  I  have  said  that  the  Brotherhood  iden- 
tifies its  members  by  a  mark  that  lasts  for  life.  See  the  place,  and 
the  mark  on  it,  for  yourself " 

He  raised  his  bare  arm,  and  showed  me,  high  on  the  upper  part 
of  it  and  on  the  inner  side,  a  brand  deeply  burned  in  the  flesh,  and 
stained  of  a  bright  blood-red  color.  I  abstain  from  describing  the 
device  which  the  brand  represented.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  sny 
that  it  was  circular  in  form,  and  so  small  that  it  would  have  been 
completely  covered  by  a  shilling  coin. 

"  A  man  who  has  this  mark  branded  in  this  place,"  he  said,  cov- 
ering his  arm  again,  "  is  a  member  of  the  Brotherhood.  A  man  who 
has  been  false  to  the  Brotherhood  is  discovered  sooner  or  later,  Ijy 
the  Chiefs  who  know  him — Presidents  or  Secretaries,  as  the  case 
may  be.  And  a  man  discovered  by  the  Chiefs  is  dead.  No  human 
laws  can  protect  Jiim.  Remember  what  you  have  seen  and  heard ; 
draw  what  conclusions  you  like ;  act  as  you  please.  But,  in  the 
name  of  God,  whatever  you  discover,  whatever  you  do,  tell  me  noth- 
ing !  Let  me  remain  free  from  a  responsibility  which  it  horrifies 
me  to  think  of — which  I  know,  in  my  conscience,  is  not  my  respon- 
sibility now.  For  the  last  time,  I  say  it — on  my  honor  as  a  gentle- 
man, on  my  oath  as  a  Christian,  if  the  man  you  pointed  out  at  the 
Opera  knows  me^  he  is  -so  altered,  or  so  disguised,  that  I  do  not 
know  Mm.  I  am  ignorant  of  his  proceedings  or  his  pui-poses  in  En- 
gland— I  never  saw  him,  I  never  heard  the  name  he  goes  by,  to  my 
knowledge,  before  to-night.  I  say  no  more.  Leave  me  a  little, 
Walter :  I  am  ovei-powered  by  what  has  happened ;  I  am  shaken  by 
what  I  have  said.  Let  me  try  to  be  like  myself  again,  when  we 
meet  next." 

He  dropped  into  a  chair;  and,  turning  away  from  me,  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands.  I  gently  opened  the  door,  so  as  not  to  disturb  him — 
and  spoke  my  few  parting  Avords  in  low  tones,  which  he  might  hear 
or  not,  as  he  pleased. 

"  I  will  keep  the  memory  of  to-night  in  my  heart  of  hearts,"  I  said. 
"  You  shall  never  repent  the  trust  you  have  reposed  in  me.  May 
I  come  to  you  to-morrow  ?    May  I  come  as  early  as  nine  o'clock  ?" 

"  Yes,  Walter,"  he  replied,  looking  up  at  me  kindly,  and  speaking 
in  English  once  more,  as  if  his  one  anxiety,  now,  was  to  get  back  to 
our  former  relations  toward  each  other.  "  Come  to  my  little  bit  of 
breakfast,  before  I  go  my  ways  among  the  pupils  that  I  teach." 

"  Good-night,  Pesca." 

"  Good-night,  my  friend." 


THE    WOMAN   IN   WUITE.  509 

VI. 

"  My  first  conviction,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself  outside  the  house, 
was  that  no  alternative  was  left  me  but  to  act  at  once  on  the  infor- 
mation I  had  received — to  make  sure  of  the  Count,  that  ni^ht,  or 
to  risk  the  loss,  if  I  only  delayed  till  the  morning,  of  Laura's  last 
chance.     I  looked  at  my  watch :  it  was  ten  o'clock. 

Not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  crossed  my  mind  of  the  purpose  for 
M'hich  the  Count  had  left  the  theatre.  His  escape  from  us  that  even- 
ing was,  beyond  all  question,  the  preliminary  only  to  his  escape  from 
London,  The  mark  of  the  Brotherhood  was  on  his  arm — 1  felt  as 
certain  of  it  as  if  he  had  shown  me  the  brand — and  the  betrayal  of 
the  Brotherhood  was  on  his  conscience — I  had  seen  It  in  his  recogni- 
tion of  Pesca. 

It  was  easy  to  understand  why  that  recognition  had  not  been  mu^ 
tual.  A  man  of  the  Count's  character  would  never  risk  the  terrible 
consequences  of  turning  spy  without  looking  to  his  personal  security 
quite  as  carefully  as  he  looked  to  his  golden  reward.  The  shaven 
ilice  which  I  had  pointed  out  at  the  Opera  might  have  been  covered 
by  a  beard  in  Pesca's  time;  his  dark  brown  hair  might  be  a  w'g; 
his  name  was  evidently  a  false  one.  The  accident  of  time  m\i  1 1 
have  helped  him  as  well — his  immense  corjDulence  might  have  come 
with  his  later  years.  There  was  every  reason  why  Pesca  should  not 
have  known  him  again  —  every  reason,  also,  why  he  should  have 
known  Pesca,  whose  singular  personal  appearance  made  a  marked 
man  of  him,  go  where  he  might. 

I  have  said  that  I  felt  certain  of  the  puq^ose  in  the  Count's  mind 
when  he  escaped  us  at  the  theatre.  How  could  I  doubt  it,  when 
I  saw,  with  my  own  eyes,  that  he  believed  himself,  in  spite  of  the 
change  in  his  appearance,  to  have  been  recognized  by  Pesca,  and  to 
be  therefore  in  danger  of  his  life  ?  If  I  could  get  speech  of  him  that 
night,  if  I  could  show  him  that  I,  too,  knew  of  the  mortal  peril  in 
which  he  stood,  what  result  would  follow  ?  Plainly  this.  One  of 
us  must  be  master  of  the  situation— one  of  us  must  inevitably  be  at 
the  mercy  of  the  other. 

I  owed  it  to  myself  to  consider  the  chances  against  me,  before  I 
confronted  them.  I  owed  it  to  my  wife  to  do  all  that  lay  in  my 
power  to  lessen  the  risk. 

The  chances  against  me  wanted  no  reckoning  up ;  they  were  all 
merged  in  one.  If  the  Count  discovered,  by  my  own  avowal,  that 
the  direct  way  to  his  safety  lay  through  my  life,  he  was  probably  the 
'I'c&t  man  in  existence  who  would  shrink  from  throwing  me  off  my 
gUf^rd  and  taking  that  way,  when  he  had  me  alone  within  his  reach. 
The  o£ily  means  of  defense  against  him  on  which  I  could  at  all  rely 
to  lessen  x^Q  risk,  presented  themselves,  after  a  little  careful  think- 


510  J  in:  wuMAX  ix  wiirri:. 

ing,  clearly  enough.  Before  I  made  anj-  personal  acknowledgment 
of  my  discovery  in  his  presence,  I  must  place  the  discovery  itself 
where  it  would  be  ready  for  instant  use  against  him,  and  safe  from 
any  attempt  at  suppression  on  his  part.  If  I  laid  the  mine  under  his 
feet  before  I  approached  him,  and  if  I  left  instructions  with  a  third 
person  to  lire  it  on  the  expiration  of  a  certain  time,  unless  directions 
to  the  contrary  were  previously  received  under  my  own  hand,  or 
from  my  own  lips — in  that  event,  the  Count's  security  was  absolute- 
ly dependent  upon  mine,  and  I  might  hold  the  vantage-ground  over 
him  securely,  even  in  his  own  house. 

This  idea  occurred  to  me  when  I  ^vas  close  to  the  new  lodgings 
which  we  had  taken  on  returning  from  the  sea-side.  I  went  in, 
without  disturbing  any  one,  by  the  help  of  my  key.  A  light  was  in 
the  hall ;  and  I  stole  up  with  it  to  my  work-room,  to  make  my  prep- 
arations, and  absolutely  to  commit  myself  to  an  interview  with  the 
Count,  before  either  Laura  or  Marian  could  have  the  slightest  sus- 
picion of  what  I  intended  to  do. 

A  letter  addressed  to  Pesca  represented  the  surest  measure  of  pre- 
caution which  it  was  now  possible  for  me  to  take.  I  wrote  as  fol- 
lows: 

"  The  man  whom  I  pointed  out  to  you  at  the  Opera  is  a  member 
of  the  Brotherhood,  and  has  been  false  to  his  trust.  Put  both  these 
assertions  to  the  test  instantly.  You  know"  the  name  he  goes  by  in 
England.  His  address  is  No.  5  Forest  Road,  St.  John's  Wood.  On 
the  love  you  once  bore  m.e,  use  the  power  intrusted  to  you,  without 
mercy  and  without  delay,  against  that  man.  I  have  risked  all,  and 
lost  all— and  the  forfeit  of  my  failure  has  l)een  j^aid  with  my  life." 

I  signed  and  dated  these  lines,  inclosed  them  in  an  envelope,  and 
sealed  it  up.  On  the  outside,  I  wrote  this  direction  :  "  Keep  the  in- 
closure  unopened  until  nine  o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  If  you  do 
not  hear  from  me,  or  see  me,  before  that  time,  break  the  seal  when 
the  clock  strikes,  and  read  the  contents."  I  added  my  initials ;  and 
protected  the  whole  by  inclosing  it  in  a  second  sealed  envelope,  ad- 
dressed to  Pesca  at  his  lodgings. 

Nothing  remained  to  be  done  after  this  but  to  find  the  means  of 
sending  my  letter  to  its  destination  immediately.  I  should  then 
liave  accomplished  all  that  lay  in  my  power.  If  any  thing  happen- 
ed to  me  in  the  Count's  house,  I  had  now  provided  for  his  answer- 
ing it  with  his  life. 

That  the  means  of  preventing  his  escape  under  any  circumstances 
whatever  were  at  Pesca's  disposal,  if  he  chose  to  exert  them,  I  did 
not  for  an  instant  doubt.  The  extraordinary  anxiety  which  he  h^id 
expressed  to  remain  unenlightened  as  to  the  Count's  identity-_or, 
in  other  words,  to  be  left  uncertain  enough  about  facts  to  jus'^'fy  ]iini 
to  his  own  conscience  in  remaining  passive — betrayed  ],\^^inly  that 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  511 

the  means  of  exercising  the  terrible  justice  of  the  Brotherhood  were 
ready  to  his  hand,  although,  as  a  naturally  humane  man,  he  had 
shrunk  from  plainly  saying  as  much  in  my  presence.  The  deadly 
certainty  with  vviiich  the  vengeance  of  foreign  political  societies  can 
hunt  down  a  traitor  to  the  cause,  hide  himself  where  he  may,  had 
been  too  often  exemplified,  even  in  my  superficial  experience,  to  al- 
low of  any  doubt.  Considering  the  subject  only  as  a  reader  of 
newspapers,  cases  recurred  to  my  memory,  both  in  London  and  in 
Paris,  of  foreigners  found  stabbed  in  the  streets,  whose  assassins 
could  never  be  traced — of  bodies  and  parts  of  bodies  thrown  into 
tlic  Thames  and  the  Seine,  by  hands  that  could  never  be  discovered 
— of  deaths  b}'  secret  violence  which  could  only  be  accounted  for 
in  one  way.  I  have  disguised  nothing  relating  to  myself  in  these 
pages — and  I  do  not  disguise  here,  that  I  believed  I  had  written 
Count  Fosco's  death-warrant,  if  the  fatal  emergency  happened  which 
authorized  Pesca  to  open  my  inclosure. 

I  left  my  room  to  go  down  to  the  ground-floor  of  the  house,  and 
speak  to  the  landlord  about  finding  me  a  messenger.  He  happened 
to  be  ascending  the  stairs  at  the  time,  and  we  met  on  the  landing. 
His  son,  a  quick  lad,  was  the  messenger  he  proposed  to  me,  on  hear- 
ing what  I  wanted.  We  had  the  boy  up  stairs  ;  and  I  gave  him  his 
directions.  He  was  to  take  the  letter  in  a  cab,  to  put  it  into  Pro- 
fessor Pesca's  own  hands,  and  to  bring  me  back  a  line  of  acknowl- 
edgment from  that  gentleman  ;  returning  in  the  cab,  and  keeping  it 
at  the  door  for  my  use.  It  was  then  nearly  half-past  ten.  I  calcu- 
lated that  the  boy  might  be  back  in  twenty  minutes ;  and  that  I  might 
drive  to  St.  John's  Wood,  on  his  return,  in  twenty  minutes  more. 

When  the  lad  had  departed  on  his  errand,  I  returned  to  my  own 
room  for  a  little  while  to  put  certain  papers  in  order,  so  that  they 
might  be  easily  found,  in  case  of  the  worst.  The  key  of  the  old- 
ftishioned  bureau  in  which  the  papers  were  kept  I  sealed  up,  and 
left  it  on  my  table,  with  Marian's  name  written  on  the  outside  of  the 
little  packet.  This  done,  I  went  down  stairs  to  the  sitting-room,  in 
vrhich  I  expected  to  find  Laura  and  Marian  awaiting  my  return  from 
the  Opera.  I  felt  my  hand  trembling  for  the  first  time,  when  I  laid 
it  on  the  lock  of  the  door. 

Ko  one  was  in  the  room  but  Marian.  She  was  reading ;  and  she 
looked  at  her  watch,  in  surprise,  when  I  came  in. 

''  How  early  you  are  back  I"  she  said.  "  You  must  have  come 
away  before  the  opera  was  over." 

''  Yes,"  I  replied ;  "  neither  Pesca  nor  I  waited  for  the  end. 
Where  is  Laura  ?" 

"  She  had  one  of  her  bad  headaches  this  evening ;  and  I  advised 
her  to  go  to  bed  when  we  had  done  tea." 

I  left  the  room  again,  on  the  pretext  of  wishing  to  see  whether 


512  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

Laura  was  asleep.  Marian's  quick  eyes  were  ]>eginning  to  look  in- 
quiringly at  my  face ;  Marian's  quick  instinct  was  beginning  to  dis- 
cover tiiat  I  had  something  weighing  on  my  mind. 

When  I  entered  the  bed-chaml>er,  and  softly  approached  the  bed- 
side by  the  dim  liicker  of  the  night-lamp,  my  wife  was  asleep. 

We  bad  not  been  married  quite  a  month  yet.  If  my  }jeart  was 
heavy,  if  my  resolution  for  a  moment  faltered  again,  when  I  looked 
at  lier  face  turned  faithfully  to  my  pillow  in  her  sleep — when  I  saw 
her  hand  resting  ojxjn  on  the  coverlet,  as  if  it  was  waiting  uncon- 
sciously for  mine — surely  there  was  some  excuse  for  me  ?  I  only  al- 
low-ed  myself  a  few  minutes  to  kneel  down  at  the  bedside,  and  to 
look  close  at  her — so  close  that  her  breath,  as  it  came  and  w^ent, 
fluttered  on  my  face.  I  only  touched  her  hand  and  her  cheek  with 
my  lips,  at  parting.  She  stirred  in  her  sleep,  and  murmured  my 
name — but  without  waking.  I  lingered  for  an  instant  at  the  door 
to  look  at  her  again.  "•  God  bless  and  keep  you,  my  dailing  ?"  I 
Avhispered — and  left  her. 

Marian  was  at  the  stair-head  waiting  for  me.  She  had  a  folded 
slip  of  paper  in  her  hand. 

"  The  landlord's  son  has  brought  this  for  yon,''  she  said.  "  He 
has  got  a  cab  at  the  door — he  says  you  ordered  him  to  keep  it  at 
your  disposal." 

'■'  Quite  right,  Marian.     I  want  the  cab ;  I  am  going  out  again.'' 

I  descended  the  stairs  as  I  spoke,  and  looked  into  the  sitting- 
room  to  read  the  slip  of  i)aper  by  the  light  on  the  table.  It  con- 
tained these  two  sentences,  in  Pesca's  handwriting : 

"  Your  letter  is  received.  If  I  don't  see  you  before  the  time  you 
mention,  I  will  break  the  seal  when  the  clock  strikes." 

I  placed  the  paper  in  my  pocket-book,  and  made  for  the  door. 
Marian  met  me  on  the  threshold,  and  pushed  me  back  into  the 
room  where  the  candle-light  fell  full  on  my  face.  She  held  me  by 
both  hands,  and  her  eyes  fastened  searchingly  on  mine. 

"  I  see  V  she  said,  in  a  low^,  eager  whisper.  "  You  are  trying  the 
last  chance  to-night." 

"  Yes — the  last  chance  and  the  best,"  I  whispered  back. 

"  Not  alone  !  Oh,  Walter,  for  God's  sake,  not  alone !  Let  me  go 
with  you.  Don't  refuse  me  because  I'm  only  a  woman.  I  must  go  ! 
I  will  go !     I'll  wait  outside  in  the  cab  !" 

It  was  my  turn  now  to  hold  her.  She  tried  to  break  away  from 
me,  and  get  down  first  to  the  door. 

"  If  you  want  to  help  me,"  I  said,  "  stop  here,  and  sleep  in  my 
wife's  room  to-night.  Only  let  me  go  away,  with  my  mind  easy 
about  Laura,  and  I  answer  for  every  thing  else.  Come,  ^Marian, 
give  me  a  kiss,  and  show  that  you  have  the  courage  to  wait  till  I 
come  back." 


THE    AVOilAN    IN    WHITE.  513 

I  dared  not  allow  her  time  to  say  a  word  more.  She  tried  to 
hold  me  again.  I  unclasped  her  hands — and  was  out  of  the  room 
in  a  moment.  The  boy  below  heard  me  on  the  stairs,  and  opened 
the  hall  door.  I  jumped  into  the  cab,  before  the  driver  could  get 
off  the  box,  '■'  Forest  Road,  St.  John's  Wood,"  I  called  to  him  through 
the  front  window.  '•  Double  fare,  if  you  get  there  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,"  "  I'll  do  it,  sir,"'  I  looked  at  my  watch.  Eleven  o'clock — 
not  a  minute  to  lose. 

The  rapid  motion  of  the  cab,  the  sense  that  every  instant  now 
was  bringing  me  nearer  to  the  Count,  the  conviction  that  I  was  em- 
barked at  last,  without  let  or  hinderance,  on  my  hazardous  enter- 
prise, heated  me  into  such  a  fever  of  excitement  that  I  shouted  to 
the  man  to  go  faster  and  faster.  As  we  left  the  streets,  and  crossed 
St,  John's  Wood  Road,  my  impatience  so  completely  oveq^owered 
me  that  I  stood  up  in  the  cab  and  stretched  my  head  out  of  the 
window,  to  see  the  end  of  the  journey  before  we  reached  it.  Just 
as  a  church  clock  in  the  distance  struck  the  quarter  past,  we  turned 
into  the  Forest  Road.  I  stopped  the  driver  a  little  away  from  the 
Count's  house -^  paid  and  dismissed  him  —  and  walked  on  to  the 
door. 

As  I  approached  the  garden  gate,  I  saw  another  person  advan- 
cing toward  it  also,  from  the  direction  opposite  to  mine.  We  met 
under  tlie  gas  lamp  in  the  road,  and  looked  at  each  other.  I  in- 
stantly recognized  the  light-haired  foreigner,  with  the  scar  on  his 
cheek ;  and  I  thought  he  recognized  me.  He  said  nothing ;  and, 
instead  of  stopping  at  the  house,  as  I  did,  he  slowly  walked  on. 
Was  he  in  the  Forest  Road  by  accident  ?  Or  had  he  followed  the 
Count  home  from  the  Opera  ? 

I  did  not  pursue  those  questions.  After  waiting  a  little,  till  the 
foreigner  had  slowly  passed  out  of  sight,  I  rang  the  gate  bell.  It 
was  then  twenty  minutes  past  eleven — late  enough  to  make  it  quite 
easy  for  the  Count  to  get  rid  of  me  by  the  excuse  that  he  was  in  bed. 

The  only  way  of  providing  against  this  contingency  was  to  send 
in  my  name,  without  asking  any  preliminary  questions,  and  to  let 
him  know,  at  the  same  time,  that  I  had  a  serious  motive  for  wish- 
ing to  see  him  at  that  late  hour.  Accordingly,  while  I  was  waiting, 
I  took  out  my  card,  and  wrote  under  my  name, "  On  important  busi- 
ness," The  maid-servant  answered  the  door  while  I  was  writing 
the  last  word  in  pencil,  and  asked  me  distrustfully  what  I  '"  i^leased 
to  want,'' 

"Be  so  good  as  to  take  that  to  your  master,"  I  replied,  giving  her 
the  card, 

I  saw,  by  the  girl's  hesitation  of  manner,  that  if  I  had  asked  for 
the  Count  in  the  first  instance,  she  would  only  have  followed  her 
instructions  by  telling  me  he  was  not  at  home.     She  was  staggered 

90* 


514  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

b)'  the  confidence  ^vitll  which  I  gave  her  the  card.  After  staring 
at  me  in  great  perturbation,  she  went  back  into  the  house  with  my 
message,  closing  the  door,  and  leaving  me  to  wait  in  the  garden. 

In  a  minute  or  so  she  re-appeared.  "  Her  master's  compliments, 
and  would  I  be  so  obliging  as  to  say  what  my  business  was?" 
''Take  my  compliments  back,"' I  replied;  "and  say  that  the  busi- 
ness can  not  be  mentioned  to  any  one  but  your  master."  She  left 
me  again,  again  returned,  and  this  time  asked  me  to  walk  in. 

I  followed  her  at  once.  In  another  moment  I  was  inside  the 
Count's  house. 

VII. 

There  was  no  lamp  in  the  hall;  but  by  the  dim  light  of  the 
kitchen  candle  which  the  girl  had  brought  up  stairs  with  her,  I  saw 
an  elderly  lady  steal  noiselessly  out  of  a  back  room  on  the  ground- 
floor.  She  cast  one  viperish  look  at  me  as  I  entered  the  hall,  but 
said  nothing,  and  went  slowly  up  stairs,  without  returning  my  bow. 
My  fiimiliarity  with  Marian's  journal  sufficiently  assured  me  that  the 
elderly  lady  was  Madame  Fosco. 

The  servant  led  me  to  the  room  which  the  Countess  had  just  left. 
I  entered  it ;  and  found  myself  face  to  face  with  the  Count. 

He  was  still  in  his  evening-dress,  except  his  coat,  which  he  had 
thrown  across  a  chair.  His  shirt-sleeves  were  turned  up  at  the 
wrists — but  no  higher.  A  carpet-bag  was  on  one  side  of  him,  and 
a  box  on  the  other.  Books,  paj^ers,  and  articles  of  wearing  apparel 
were  scattered  about  the  room.  On  a  table,  at  one  side  of  the  door, 
stood  the  cage,  so  well  known  to  me  by  description,  which  contained 
his  white  mice.  The  canaries  and  the  cockatoo  were  j^robably  in 
some  other  room.  He  was  seated  before  the  box,  packing  it,  when 
I  went  in,  and  rose  with  some  papers  in  his  hand  to  receive  me. 
His  face  still  betrayed  plain  traces  of  the  shock  that  had  over- 
whelmed him  at  the  Opera.  His  fat  cheeks  hung  loose ;  his  cold 
gray  eyes  were  furtively  vigilant ;  his  voice,  look,  and  manner  were 
all  sharply  suspicious  alike,  as  he  advanced  a  step  to  meet  me,  and 
requested,  with  distant  civility,  that  I  would  take  a  chair. 

"You  come  here  on  business,  sir?"  he  said.  "I  am  at  a  loss  to 
know  Miiat  that  business  can  possibly  be." 

The  unconcealed  curiosity  with  which  he  looked  hard  in  my  face 
while  he  spoke,  convinced  me  that  I  had  passed  unnoticed  by  him 
at  the  Opera.  He  had  seen  Pesca  first ;  and  from  that  moment,  till 
he  left  the  theatre,  he  had  evidently  seen  nothing  else.  My  name 
would  necessarily  suggest  to  him  that  I  had  not  come  into  his  house 
with  other  than  a  hostile  purjjose  toward  himself;  but  he  appeared 
to  be  utterly  ignorant,  thus  fiir,  of  the  real  nature  of  my  errand. 

"  I  am  fortunate  in  finding  you  here  to-night,"  I  said.  "  You 
flccm  to  be  on  the  point  of  taking  a  journey  ?" 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  515 

"  Is  your  business  conucctcd  with  my  jouniey  ?" 

"  In  some  degree." 

"  In  what  degree  ?     Do  you  know  where  I  am  going  to  V 

"  No.     I  only  know^  why  you  are  leaving  London," 

He  slipped  by  me  with  the  quickness  of  thought ;  locked  the 
door  of  the  room  ;  and  put  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

"  You  and  I,  Mr.  Hartright,  are  excellently  well  acquainted  with 
one  another  by  reputation,"  he  said.  "  Did  it,  by  any  chance,  occur 
to  you  w^hen  you  came  to  this  house  that  I  was  not  the  sort  of  man 
you  could  trifle  with  ?" 

"It  did  occur  to  me,"  I  replied,  "And  I  have  not  come  to  trifle 
with  you.  I  am  here  on  a  matter  of  life  and  death — and  if  that 
door  which  you  have  locked  was  open  at  this  moment,  nothing  you 
could  say  or  do  would  induce  me  to  pass  through  it." 

I  walked  farther  into  the  room  and  stood  opposite  to  him,  on  the 
rug  before  the  fire-place.  He  drew  a  chair  in  front  of  the  door,  and 
sat  down  on  it,  with  his  left  arm  resting  on  the  table.  The  cage 
with  the  white  mice  was  close  to  him ;  and  the  little  creatures 
scampered  out  of  their  sleeping-place,  as  his  heavy  arm  shook  the 
table,  and  peered  at  him  through  the  gaps  in  the  smartly-painted 
wires. 

"  On  a  matter  of  life  and  death?"  he  repeated  to  himself,  "  Those 
words  are  more  serious,  perhaps,  than  you  think.  What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"  What  I  say." 

The  perspiration  broke  out  thickly  on  his  broad  forehead.  His 
left  hand  stole  over  the  edge  of  the  table.  There  was  a  drawer  in 
it,  with  a  lock,  and  the  key  was  in  the  lock.  His  finger  and  thumb 
closed  over  the  key,  but  did  not  turn  it. 

"  So  you  know  why  I  am  leaving  London  ?"  he  went  on.  "  Tell 
me  the  reason,  if  you  please."  He  turned  the  key,  and  unlocked  the 
drawer  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  can  do  better  than  that,"  I  replied ;  "  I  can  sJiow  you  the  rea- 
son, if  you  like." 

"  How  can  you  show  it  ?" 

"  You  have  got  your  coat  off,"  I  said.  "  Roll  up  the  shirt-sleeve 
on  your  left  arm,  and  you  will  see  it  there." 

'  The  same  livid,  leaden  change  passed  over  his  face,  which  I  had 
seen  pass  over  it  at  the  theatre.  The  deadly  glitter  in  his  eyes 
shone  steady  and  straight  into  mine.  He  said  nothing.  But  his 
left  hand  slowly  opened  the  table-drawer,  and  softly  slipped  into  it. 
The  harsh  grating  noise  of  something  heavy  that  he  was  moving, 
unseen  to  me,  sounded  for  a  moment — then  ceased.  The  silence 
that  followed  was  so  intense,  that  the  faint  ticking  nibble  of  the 
white  mice  at  their  wires  was  distinctly  audible  where  I  stood. 


51 G  THE    WOMAX    IN    AVIIITE. 

My  life  hung  1>\'  a  thread,  and  I  knew  it.  At  that  final  moment  I 
thought  with  his  mind  ;  I  felt  with  his  fingers ;  I  was  as  certain,  as 
if  I  had  seen  it,  of  what  he  kept  hidden  from  me  in  the  drawer. 

''  Wait  a  little,"  I  said.  "  You  have  got  the  door  locked — j'ou  sec 
I  don't  move — you  see  my  hands  are  empty.  Wait  a  little.  I  have 
something  more  to  say." 

"  You  have  said  enough,"  he  replied,  with  a  sudden  composure, 
so  unnatural  and  so  ghastly,  that  it  tried  m^y  nerves  as  no  outbreak 
of  violence  could  have  tried  them.  "  I  want  one  naoment  for  my 
own  thoughts,  if  you  please.  Do  you  guess  what  I  am  thinking 
about  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  do," 

"I  am  thinking,"  he  remarked,  quietly,  "whether  I  shall  add  to* 
the  disorder  in  this  room  by  scattering  your  brains  about  the  fire- 
place." 

If  I  had  moved  at  that  moment,  I  saw  in  his  face  tliat  he  would 
have  done  it. 

"  I  advise  you  to  read  two  lines  of  writing  which  I  have  about 
me,"  I  rejoined,  "  before  you  finally  decide  that  question." 

The  proposal  appeared  to  excite  his  curiosity.  He  nodded  his^ 
head.  I  took  Pesca's  acknowledgment  of  the  receipt  of  my  letter 
out  of  my  pocket-book,  handed  it  to  him  at  arms-lengthy  and  return- 
ed to  my  former  position  in  front  of  the  fire-place. 

He  read  the  lines  aloud  :  "  '  Your  letter  is  receivecL  If  I  don't 
hear  from  you  before  the  time  you  mention,  I  will  break  the  seal 
when  the  clock  strikes.'  " 

Another  man  in  his  position  vrould  have  needed  some  explana- 
tion of  those  words — the  Count  felt  no  such  necessity.  One  read- 
ing of  the  note  showed  him  the  precaution  that  I  had  taken,  as 
plainly  as  if  he  had  been  present  at  the  time  when  I  adopted  it. 
The  expression  of  his  face  changed  on  the  instant ;  and  his  hand 
came  out  of  the  drawer  empty. 

"  I  don't  lock  up  my  drawer,  Mr.  Ilartright,*'  he  said ;  "  and  I  don't 
say  that  I  may  not  scatter  your  brains  about  the  fire-place  yet.  But 
I  am  a  just  man,  even  to  my  enemy — and  I  will  acknowledge  before- 
hand that  they  arc  cleverer  brains  than  I  thought  them.  Come  to 
the  point,  sir  I     You  want  something  of  me  ?" 

"  I  do — and  I  mean  to  have  it."  , 

"  On  conditions  ?" 

"  On  no  conditions."- 

Ilis  hand  dropped  into  the  drawer  again. 

"Bah  I  we  are  traveling  in  a  circle,''  he  said;  "and  those  clever 
brains  of  yours  are  in  danger  again.  Your  tone  is  deplorably  im- 
prudent, sir — moderate  it  on  the  spot !  The  risk  of  shooting  you  on 
the  place  where  you  stand  is  less  to  me  than  the  risk  of  letting  you 


/ 


J;   WOMAN   IN   WHITE.  517 

.,  ,.,.       except  on  conditions  that  I  dictate  and  approve, 

do,  on  conditio-  '-  -    i  r.  •      i  ^      i     i      -.i 

'       I  T  1^  '^  S^^  ^^y  lamented  fnend  to  deal  with  now— you  arc 
,.  -'  with  Fosco  I     If  the  lives  of  twenty  Mr,  Hartri^hts  were 

ihe  Htepping-stones  to  my  satety,  over  all  those  stones  I  would  go, 
sustained  by  roy  Buldime  indiftcrence,  self-balanced  by  my  impene- 
trable calm.  Respect  me,  if  you  love  your  own  life  I  I  Bummon  you 
to  answer  three  questions,  before  you  open  your  lips  again.  Hear 
them— they  arc  nece&sary  to  this  intei'\'iew.  Answer  them— they  are 
necessary  to  me.''  He  held  up  one  finger  of  his  right  hand.  ''  First 
question  !"  he  said.  ''  You  come  here  possessed  of  information  which 
may  be  true  or  may  be  false — wliiere  did  you  get  it  ?" 

"  I  decline  to  tell  you." 

"  No  matter :  I  shall  find  out  If  that  information  is  true — mind, 
I  say,  with  the  whole  force  of  my  resolution,  ?/-— you  are  making 
your  market  of  it  here  by  treachei7  of  your  own,  or  by  treachery 
of  some  other  man.  I  note  that  circumstance  for  future  use  in  my 
memory  which  forgets  nothing,  and  proceed/'  He  held  up  another 
finger.  "  Second  question !  Those  lines  you  invited  me  to  read  are 
without  signature.     Who  wrote  them  ?" 

"  x\.  man  whom  /  have  every  reason  to  depend  on ;  and  whom  i,'ou 
have  every  reason  to  fear." 

My  answer  reached  him  to  some  purpose.  His  left  hand  trembled 
audibly  in  the  drawer. 

"  How  long  do  you  give  me,"  he  asked,  putting  his  third  question 
in  a  quieter  tone,  "  before  the  clock  strikes  and  the  seal  is  broken  ?" 

"  Time  enough  for  you  to  come  to  my  terms,"  I  replied. 

"  Give  me  a  plainer  answer,  Mr,  Hartright.  What  hour  is  the  clock 
to  strike  ?" 

"  Nine  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Nine  to-morrow  morning  ?  Yes,  yes — your  trap  is  laid  for  me 
before  I  can  get  my  passport  regulated  and  leave  London.  It  is  not 
earlier,  I  suppose  ?  We  will  see  about  that  presently — I  can  keep 
you  hostage  here,  and  bargain  with  you  to  send  for  3'our  letter  be- 
fore I  let  you  go.  In  the  mean  time,  be  so  good,  next,  as  to  mention 
your  terms." 

"  You  shall  hear  them.  They  are  simple,  and  soon  stated.  You 
know  whose  interests  I  represent  in  coming  here  ?" 

He  smiled  with  the  most  supreme  composure,  and  carelessly  waved 
his  right  hand. 

"I  consent  to  hazard  a  guess,"  he  said,  jeeringly.  "A  lady's  in- 
terests, of  course  I" 

"  My  wdfe's  interests." 

He  looked  at  me  with  the  first  honest  expression  that  had  crossed 
■his  face  in  my  presence — an  expression  of  blank  amazement.  I  could 
vsee  that  I  sank  in  his  estimation,  as  a  dangerous  man,  from  that  mo- 


\ 


518  THE    WOMAN    IX    Wllfl^- 

ment.     lie  shut  up  the  drawer  at  once,  folded  hlfc  final  moment  I 
breast,  and  listened  to  me  with  a  smile  of  satirical  attefts  certain,  as 

"  You  are  well  enough  aware,"  I  went  on,  "  of  the  coufijver, 
my  inquiries  have  taken  for  many  months  past,  to  know  that  any  at- 
tempted denial  of  plain  facts  will  be  quite  useless  in  my  presence. 
You  are  guilty  of  an  infamous  conspiracy.     And  the  gain  of  a  for- 
tune of  ten  thousand  pounds  was  your  motive  for  it." 

He  said  nothing.  But  his  face  became  overclouded  suddenly  by 
a  lowering  anxiety. 

''  Keep  your  gain,"  I  said.  (His  face  lightened  again  immediate- 
ly, and  his  eyes  opened  on  me  in  wider  and  wider  astonishment.) 
"  I  am  not  here  to  disgrace  myself  by  bargaining  for  money  which 
has  passed  through  your  hands,  and  which  has  been  the  price  of  a 
vile  crime — " 

''  Gently,  Mr,  Hartright.  Your  moral  claptraps  have  an  excellent 
effect  in  England — keep  them  for  yourself  and  your  own  country- 
men, if  you  please.  The  ten  thousand  pounds  was  a  legacy  left  to 
my  excellent  wife  by  the  late  Mr.  Fairlie.  Place  the  affair  on  those 
grounds,  and  I  will  discuss  it  if  you  like.  To  a  man  of  my  senti- 
ments, however,  the  subject  is  deplorably  sordid.  I  prefer  to  pass  it 
over.  I  invite  you  to  resume  the  discussion  of  your  terms.  What 
do  you  demand  ?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  demand  a  full  confession  of  the  conspiracy, 
written  and  signed  in  my  presence,  by  yourself" 

He  raised  his  finger  again.  "  One  !"  he  said,  checking  me  off  with 
the  steady  attention  of  a  practical  man. 

"  In  the  second  place,  I  demand  a  plain  proof,  which  does  not  de- 
pend on  your  personal  asseveration,  of  the  date  at  which  my  wife 
left  Blackwater  Park  and  traveled  to  London." 

"  So  I  so  I  you  can  lay  your  finger,  I  see,  on  the  weak  place,"  he 
remarked,  composedly.     "  Any  more  ?" 

"  At  present,  no  more." 

"Good!  you  have  mentioned  your  terms;  now  listen  to  mine. 
The  responsibility  to  myself  of  admitting,  what  you  are  pleased  to 
call  the  '  conspiracy,'  is  less,  perhaps,  upon  the  whole,  than  the  re- 
sponsibility of  laying  you  dead  on  that  hearth-rug.  Let  us  say  that 
I  meet  your  proposal — on  my  own  conditions.  The  statement  you 
demand  of  me  shall  be  written ;  and  the  plain  proof  shall  be  pro- 
duced. You  call  a  letter  from  my  late  lamented  friend,  informing 
me  of  the  day  and  hour  of  his  wife's  arrival  in  London,  written, 
signed,  and  dated  by  himself,  a  proof,  I  suppose  ?  I  can  give  you 
this.  I  can  also  send  you  to  the  man  of  whom  I  hired  the  carriage 
to  fetch  my  visitor  from  the  railway  on  the  day  when  she  arrived — ■ 
his  order-book  may  help  you  to  your  date,  even  if  liis  coachman  who 
drove  me  proves  to  be  of  no  use.     These  things  I  can  do,  and  will 


THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE.  519 

do,  on  conditions.  I  recite  them.  First  condition  !  Madame  Fos- 
co  and  I  leave  this  house  when  and  how  we  please,  without  inter- 
ference of  any  kind  on  your  part.  Second  condition  I  You  wait 
here,  in  company  with  me,  to  see  my  agent,  who  is  coming  at  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  to  regulate  my  affairs.  You  give  my  agent 
a  written  order  to  the  man  who  has  got  your  sealed  letter  to  resign 
his  possession  of  it.  You  wait  here  till  my  agent  places  that  letter 
unopened  in  my  hands  ;  and  you  then  allow  me  one  clear  half-hour 
to  leave  the  house — after  which  you  resume  your  own  freedom  of 
action,  and  go  where  you  please.  Third  condition  I  You  give  me 
the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman  for  your  intrusion  into  my  private 
affairs,  and  for  the  language  you  have  allowed  yourself  to  use  to  me 
at  this  conference.  The  time  and  place,  abroad,  to  be  fixed  in  a  let- 
ter from  my  hand  when  i  am  safe  on  the  Continent ;  and  that  letter  to 
contain  a  strip  of  paper  measuring  accurately  the  length  of  my  sword. 
Those  are  my  terms.     Inform  me  if  you  accept  them — Yes  or  Xo." 

The  extraordinary  mixture  of  prompt  decision,  far-sighted  cun- 
ning, and  mountebank  bravado  in  this  speech,  staggered  me  for  a 
moment — and  only  for  a  moment.  The  one  question  to  consider 
was,  whether  I  was  justified  or  not  in  possessing  myself  of  the  means 
of  establishing  Laura's  identity,  at  the  cost  of  allowing  the  scoun- 
drel who  had  robbed  her  of  it  to  escape  me  with  impunity.  I  knew 
that  the  motive  of  securing  the  just  recognition  of  my  wife  in  the 
Ijirthplace  from  which  she  had  been  driven  out  as  an  impostor,  and 
of  publicly  erasing  the  lie  that  still  profaned  her  mother's  tomb- 
stone, was  far  purer,  in  its  freedom  from  all  taint  of  evil  passion, 
than  the  vindictive  motive  which  had  mingled  itself  with  my  pur- 
pose from  the  first.  And  yet  I  can  not  honestly  say  that  my  own 
moral  convictions  were  strong  enough  to  decide  the  struggle  in  me 
by  themselves.  They  were  helped  Vjy  my  remembrance  of  Sir  Per- 
cival's  death.  How  awfully,  at  the  last  moment,  had  the  working 
of  the  retribution  there  been  snatched  from  my  feeble  hands  I  What 
right  had  I  to  decide,  in  my  poor  mortal  ignorance  of  the  future, 
that  this  man,  too,  must  escape  with  impunity  because  he  escaped 
me  f  I  thought  of  these  things — perhaps  with  the  superstition  in- 
herent in  my  nature  ;  perhaps  with  a  sense  worthier  of  me  than  su- 
perstition. It  was  hard,  when  I  had  fastened  my  hold  on  him  at 
last,  to  loosen  it  again  of  my  own  accord,  but  I  forced  myself  to 
make  the  sacrifice.  In  plainer  words,  I  determined  to  be  guided  by 
the  one  higher  motive  of  which  I  was  certain,  the  motive  of  sers'ing 
the  cause  of  Laura  and  the  cause  of  Truth. 

"  I  accept  your  conditions,"  I  said.  "  With  one  reservation,  on 
my  part.'' 


520  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

''  Wluat  rcscn-ation  may  that  be  V  he  asked. 

*'  It  refers  to  tlie  sealed  letter,"!  answered.  "  I  reqnire  you  to  de- 
stroy it,  uiiffpenedy  in  my  presence,  as  soon  as  it  is  placed  in  your 
liands."" 

3ry  olxjcc-t  in  making'  this  stipulaticm  was  simply  to  prevent  him 
from  carrs'ing  away  written  evidence  of  the  nature  of  my  communi- 
cation with  Pesca.  The  fact  of  my  communication  be  would  neces- 
sarily discover  when  I  gave  the  address  to  his  agent  ia  the  morning. 
But  he  could  make  no  use  of  it,  on  his  own  unsupported  testimony 
— even  if  he  really  ventured  to  try  tlie  experiment — which  need  ex- 
cite in  me  the  slightest  apprehension  on  Pesca's  account. 

'•  I  gTiint  your  reservation,^  he  replied,  after  considering  the  ques- 
tion gravely  for  a  minute  or  two,  ''It  is  Bot  worth  dispute — the 
letter  shall  be  destroyed  when  it  comes  into  my  hands." 

He  rose,  as  he  six>ke,  from  the  chair  in  which  he  had  been  sitting- 
opposite  to  me  up  to  this  time.  With  one  effort  he  appeared  to  free 
})i:3  mind  from  the  whole  pressure  on  it  of  the  inten-iew  between  us 
thus  far.  '^Oirf!''  be  cried,  stretching  his  arms  luxuriously;  "the 
skiniiish  was  hot  while  it  lasted.  Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Hartright.  We 
meet  as  mortal  enemies  hereafter — let  us,  like  gallant  gentlemen,  ex- 
change polite  attentions  in  the  meaa  time.  Permit  me  to  take  the 
lilx-M-ty  of  calling  for  my  wife." 

He  unlocked  and  opened  the  door.  '•  EJeauor  I''  he  called  out,  in 
liis  deep  voice.  The  lady  of  the  riix^ridi  face  came  in,  "  Madame 
Fosco — Mr,  Harfright,"  said  the  Count,  introducing  us  with  easy 
dig-nity.  ''My  angel,"  he  went  on,  addressing  his  wife,  "will  j'our 
}al)ors  of  packing  up  allow  you  time  to  make  me  some  nice  strong: 
coffee  ?  I  have  writing-business  to  transact  with  ]Mr,  Hartright — 
and  I  require  the  full  |x>SBe&sion  of  my  intelligence  to  do  justice  to» 
myself.'" 

Madame  Fosco  bowed  her  head  twice — once  sternly  to  me ;  once 
submissively  to  her  husband — and  glided  out  of  the  room. 

The  Count  walked  to  a  writings-table  near  the  window,  opened  his 
desk,  and  took  from  it  several  quires  of  ]xti5er  and  a  bundle  of  quill 
pens.  He  scattered  the  }:>ens  about  the  table,  so  that  they  might  lie 
ready  in  all  directions  to  \jg  taken  up  when  wanted,  and  then  cut 
the  paper  into  a  heap  of  narrow  slips,  of  the  form  used  by  profes- 
sional writers  for  the  press.  "  I  shall  make  this  a  remarkable  docu- 
ment," he  said,  looking  at  me  over  his  shoulder.  "  Habits  of  literary 
composition  are  perfectly  familiar  to  me.  One  of  the  rarest  of  all 
the  intellectual  accomplishments  that  a  man  can  possess,  is  the  grand 
faculty  of  arranging  liis  ideas.  Immense  privilege  1  I  possess  it. 
Do  you  ?" 

He  marched  backward  and  forward  in  the  room  until  the  coffee 
appeared,  humming  to  himself,  and  marking  the  places  at  which 


THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE.  521 

obstacles  occurred  in  the  arrangement  of  bis  ideas,  by  striking  liis 
forehead  from  time  to  time  with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  The  enor- 
mous audacity  with  which  he  seized  on  the  situation  in  which  I 
had  placed  him,  and  made  it  the  pedestal  on  which  his  vanity 
mounted  for  the  one  cherished  purpose  of  self-display,  mastered 
my  astonishment  by  main  force.  Sincerely  as  I  loathed  the  man, 
tlie  prodigious  strength  of  his  character,  even  in  its  most  trivial  as- 
pects, impressed  me  in  spite  of  myself. 

The  coffee  was  brought  in  by  Madame  Fosco.  He  kissed  her 
hand  in  grateful  acknowledgment,  and  escorted  her  to  the  door; 
returned,  poured  out  a  cup  of  coffee  for  himself,  and  took  it  to  the 
writing-table. 

''May  I  offer  you  some  coffee,  Mr.  Hartright  ?"  he  said,  before  he 
sat  down. 

I  declined, 

"What!  you  think  I  shall  poison  you  ?"  he  said,  gayly.  "The 
English  intellect  is  sound  so  far  as  it  goes,"  he  continued,  seating 
himself  at  the  table ;  "  but  it  has  one  grave  defect — it  is  always 
cautious  in  the  wrong  place." 

He  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink;  placed  the  first  slip  of  paper  be- 
fore him  with  a  tliumiD  of  his  hand  on  the  desk ;  cleared  his  throat ; 
and  began.  He  wrote  with  great  noise  and  rapidity,  in  so  large  and 
bold  a  hand,  and  with  such  wide  spaces  between  the  lines,  that  he 
reached  the  bottom  of  the  slip  in  not  more  than  two  minutes  cer- 
tainly from  the  time  when  he  started  at  the  top.  Each  slip,  as 
he  finished  it,  was  paged  and  tossed  over  his  shoulder,  out  of  his 
way,  on  the  floor.  When  his  first  pen  was  worn  out,  that  went  over 
his  shoulder  too ;  and  he  pounced  on  a  second  from  the  supply  scat- 
tered about  the  table.  Slip  after  slip,  by  dozens,  by  fifties,  by  hun- 
dreds, flew  over  his  shoulders  on  either  side  of  him,  till  he  had 
snowed  himself  up  in  paper  all  round  his  chair.  Hour  after  hour 
passed — and  there  I  sat,  watching ;  there  he  sat,  writing.  He  never 
stopped,  except  to  sip  his  cofiee  ;  and,  when  that  was  exhausted,  to 
smack  his  forehead  from  time  to  time.  One  o'clock  struck,  two, 
three,  four— and  still  the  slips  flew  about  all  round  him ;  still  the 
untiring  pen  scraped  its  way  ceaselessly  from  top  to  bottom  of  the 
page ;  still  the  white  chaos  of  paper  rose  higher  and  higher  all 
round  his  chair.  At  four  o'clock  I  heard  a  sudden  splutter  of  the 
pen,  indicative  of  the  flourish  with  which  he  signed  his  name, 
"  Bravo !"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet  with  the  activity  of  a 
young  man,  and  looking  me  straight  in  the  face  with  a  smile  of 
superb  triumph, 

"Done,  Mr,  Hartright  I"  he  announced,  Mith  a  self  -  renovating 
thump  of  his  fist  on  his  broad  breast.  "Done,  to  my  own  profound 
•satisfaction — to  your  profound  astonishment,  when  you  read  what  I 


622  Tin-:  woman  in  wuite. 

have  written.  The  sii])ject  is  exliausted:  tlie  man — Fosco — is  not. 
I  proceed  to  the  arrangement  of  my  slips,  to  the  revision  of  my  slips, 
to  the  reading  of  my  slips — addressed,  emphatically,  to  your  private 
ear.  Four  o'clock  has  just  struck.  Good !  Arrangement,  revision, 
reading,  from  four  to  five.  Short  snooze  of  restoration  for  myself, 
from  five  to  six.  Final  preparations,  from  six  to  seven.  Afiair  of 
agent  and  sealed  letter,  from  seven  to  eight.  At  eight,  en  route. 
Behold  the  programme  I' 

He  sat  down  cross-legged  on  the  floor  among  his  papers ;  strung 
them  together  with  a  bodkin  and  a  piece  of  string ;  revised  them ; 
wrote  all  the  titles  and  honors  by  which  he  was  personally  distin- 
guished at  the  head  of  the  first  page ;  and  then  read  the  manuscript 
to  me,  with  loud  theatrical  emphasis  and  profuse  theatrical  gesticu- 
lation. The  reader  will  have  an  opportunity  ere  long  of  forming 
his  own  opinion  of  the  document.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  mention 
here  that  it  answered  my  purpose. 

He  next  wrote  me  the  address  of  the  person  from  whom  he  had 
hired  the  fly,  and  handed  me  Sir  Percival's  letter.  It  was  dated 
from  Hampshire  on  the  25th  of  July ;  and  it  announced  the  jour- 
ney of  "  Lady  Glyde  "  to  London,  on  the  26th.  Thus,  on  the  veiy 
day  (the  25th),  wdien  the  doctor's  certificate  declared  that  she  had 
died  in  St.  John  s  Wood,  she  was  alive,  by  Sir  Percival's  own  show- 
ing, at  Blackwater — and  on  the  day  after  she  was  to  take  a  journey  ! 
When  the  proof  of  that  journey  was  obtained  from  the  flyman,  the 
evidence  would  be  complete. 

'•A  quarter  past  five,"  said  the  Count,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"  Time  for  my  restorative  snooze.  I  personally  resemble  Napoleon 
the  Great,  as  you  may  have  remarked,  Mr.  Hartright — I  also  resem- 
ble that  immortal  man  in  my  power  of  commanding  sleep  at  will. 
Excuse  me  one  moment.  I  will  summon  Madame  Fosco,  to  keep 
you  from  feeling  dull.'' 

Knowing  as  well  as  he  did  that  he  was  summoning  Madame  Fos- 
co to  insure  my  not  leaving  the  house  while  he  was  asleep,  I  made 
no  reply,  and  occupied  myself  in  tying  up  the  papers  which  he  had 
placed  in  my  possession. 

The  lady  came  in,  cool,  pale,  and  venomous  as  ever.  "  Amuse  Mr. 
Hartright,  my  angel,"  said  the  Count.  He  placed  a  chair  for  her, 
kissed  her  hand  for  the  second  time,  withdrew  to  a  sofa,  and  in 
three  minutes  was  as  peacefully  and  happily  asleep  as  the  most  vir- 
tuous man  in  existence. 

Madame  Fosco  took  a  book  from  the  table,  sat  down,  and  looked 
at  me,  with  the  steady,  vindictive  malice  of  a  woman  who  never  for- 
got and  never  forgave. 

"  I  have  been  listening  to  your  conversation  with  my  husband," 
she  said.  "  If  I  had  been  in  his  place,  /would  have  laid  you  dead 
on  the  hearth-ruer.'' 


I 


THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE  523 

"With  those  words,  she  opened  her  book ;  arid  never  looked  at 
me,  or  spoke  to  me,  from  that  time  till  the  time  when  her  husband 
woke. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  rose  from  the  sofa,  accurately  to  an  hour 
from  the  time  Avhen  he  had  gone  to  sleep. 

"  I  feel  infinitely  refreshed,"  he  remarked.  "  Eleanor,  my  good 
wife,  are  you  all  ready  up  stairs  ?  That  is  well.  My  little  packing 
here  can  be  completed  in  ten  minutes — my  traveling-dress  assumed 
in  ten  minutes  more.  What  remains,  before  the  agent  comes  V  He 
looked  about  the  room,  and  noticed  the  cage  with  his  white  mice  in 
it.  '•  Ah  \"  he  cried,  piteously ;  "  a  last  laceration  of  my  sympathies 
still  remains.  My  innocent  pets  !  my  little  cherished  children  ! 
what  am  I  to  do  with  them  ?  For  the  present,  we  are  settled  no- 
where ;  for  the  present,  we  travel  incessantly — the  less  baggage  we 
carry,  the  better  for  ourselves.  My  cockatoo,  my  canaries,  and  my 
little  mice,  who  will  cherish  them  when  their  good  Papa  is  gone  ?" 

He  walked  about  the  room,  deep  in  thought.  He  had  not  been 
at  all  troubled  about  writing  his  confession,  but  he  was  visibly  per- 
plexed and  distressed  about  the  far  more  important  question  of  the 
disposal  of  his  pets.  After  long  consideration,  lie  suddenly  sat  down 
again  at  the  writing-table. 

"  An  idea !"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  will  offer  my  canaries  and  my 
cockatoo  to  this  vast  Metropolis — my  agent  shall  present  them,  in 
my  name,  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  of  London.  The  Document 
that  describes  them  shall  be  drawn  out  on  the  spot." 

He  began  to  write,  repeating  the  words  as  they  fioAved  from  his 
pen. 

"  Number  One.  Cockatoo  of  transcendent  plumage :  attraction 
of  himself  to  all  visitors  of  taste.  Kumber  Two.  Canaries  of  un- 
rivaled vivacity  and  intelligence;  worth}-  of  the  garden  of  Eden, 
worthy  also  of  the  garden  in  the  Regent's  Park.  Homage  to  Brit- 
ish Zoology.     Offered  by  Fosco." 

The  pen  spluttered  again,  and  the  flourish  was  attached  to  his 
signature. 

"  Count !  you  have  not  included  the  mice,"  said  Madame  Fosco. 

He  left  the  table,  took  her  hand,  and  placed  it  on  his  heart. 

"All  human  resolution,  Eleanor,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "  has  its  lim- 
its. My  limits  are  inscribed  on  that  Document.  I  can  not  part 
with  my  white  mice.  Bear  with  me,  my  angel,  and  remove  them  to 
their  traveling-cage  up  stairs," 

'-  Admirable  tenderness  I"  said  Madame  Fosco,  admiring  her  hus- 
band with  a  last  viperish  look  in  my  direction.  She  took  up  the 
cage  carefully,  and  left  the  room. 

The  Count  looked  at  his  watch.  In  spite  of  his  resolute  assump- 
hion  of  composure,  he  was  getting  anxious  for  the  agent's  arrival 


624  THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE. 

The  candles  had  long  since  ]>een  extinguished,  and  the  sunlight  of 
the  new  morning  poured  into  the  room.  It  was  not  till  five  min- 
utes past  seven  that  the  gate-bell  rang,  and  the  agent  made  his  ap- 
pearance.    He  was  a  foreigner,  with  a  dark  beard. 

"  Mr.  Ilartright — Monsieur  liubelle,"  said  the  Count,  introducmg 
us.  He  took  the  agent  (a  foreign  spy,  in  every  line  of  his  face,  if 
ever  there  was  one  yet)  into  a  corner  of  the  room,  whispered  some 
directions  to  him,  and  then  left  us  together.  ''Monsieur  Rubelle," 
as  soon  as  we  were  alone,  suggested,  w  ith  great  politeness,  that  I 
should  flivor  him  with  his  instructions.  I  wrote  two  lines  to  Pesca, 
authorizing  him  to  deliver  my  sealed  letter  "  to  the  Bearer,"  direct- 
ed the  note,  and  handed  it  to  Monsieur  Rubelle. 

The  agent  waited  with  me  till  his  employer  returned,  equipped  in 
traveling  costume.  The  Count  examined  the  address  of  my  letter 
before  he  dismissed  the  agent.  "  I  thought  so '."  he  said,  turning  on 
me  with  a  dark  look,  and  altering  again  in  his  manner  from  that 
moment. 

He  completed  his  packing,  and  then  sat  consulting  a  traveling- 
map,  making  entries  in  his  pocket-book,  and  looking  every  now 
and  then  impatiently  at  his  watch.  Not  another  word,  addressed 
to  myself,  passed  his  lips.  The  near  approach  of  the  hour  for  his 
departure,  and  the  proof  he  had  seen  of  the  communication  estab- 
lished l)etw^een  Pesca  and  myself,  had  plainly  recalled  his  whole  at- 
tention to  the  measures  that  w^ere  necessary  for  securing  his  escape. 

A  little  before  eight  o'clock  Monsieur  Rubelle  came  back,  with 
my  unopened  letter  in  his  hand.  The  Count  looked  carefully  at 
the  superscription  and  the  seal,  lit  a  candle,  and  burned  the  letter. 
"^  I  perform  my  promise,"  he  said ;  "^  but  this  matter,  Mr.  Hartright, 
shall  not  end  here." 

The  agent  had  kept  at  the  door  the  cab  in  which  he  had  return 
cd.  He  and  the  maid-servant  now  busied  themselves  in  removing 
the  luggage.  Madame  Fosco  came  down  stairs,  thickly  veiled,  with 
the  traveling -cage  of  the  white  mice  in  her  hand.  She  neither 
spoke  to  me  nor  looked  toward  me.  Her  husband  escorted  her  to 
the  cab.  ''Follow  me  as  far  as  the  passage,"  he  whispered  in  my 
ear;  "I  may  want  to  speak  to  you  at  the  last  moment." 

I  went  out  to  the  door ;  the  agent  standing  below  me  in  the  front 
garden.  The  Count  came  back  alone,  and  drew  me  a  few  steps  in- 
side the  passage. 

"  Remember  the  Third  condition  !"  he  whispered.  "  You  shall 
hear  from  me,  IVIr.  Hartright — I  may  claim  from  you  the  satisfaction 
of  a  gentleman  sooner  than  you  think  for."  He  caught  my  hand 
before  I  was  aware  of  him,  and  wrung  it  hard — then  turned  to  the 
door,  stopped,  and  came  back  to  me  again. 

"  One  word  more,"  he  said,  confidentiall3\     "  When  I  last  saw 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  525 

Miss  Halcoinbe,  she  looked  thin  and  ill.     I  am  anxious  about  that 
admirable  woman.     Take  care  of  her,  sir  I     With  my  hand  on  my^ 
heart,  I  solemnly  inplore  you,  take  care  of  Miss  Halcombe  I'' 

Those  were  the  last  words  he  said  to  me  before  he  squeezed  his 
huge  body  into  the  cab  and  drove  olf. 

The  agent  and  I  waited  at  the  door  a  few  moments,  looking  after 
him.  While  we  were  standing  together,  a  second  cab  appeared 
from  a  turning  a  little  way  down  the  road.  It  followed  the  direction 
previously  taken  by  the  Count's  cab ;  and,  as  it  passed  the  house 
and  the  open  garden-gate,  a  person  inside  looked  at  us  out  of  the 
window.  The  stranger  at  the  Opera  again  1 — the  foreigner  with  the 
scar  on  his  left  cheek. 

'•  You  wait  here  with  me,  sir,  for  half  an  hour  more  I""  said  Mon- 
sieur Rubelle. 

-I  do." 

We  returned  to  the  sitting-room.  I  was  in  no  humor  to  speak  to 
the  agent,  or  to  allow  him  to  speak  to  me.  I  took  out  the  papers 
which  the  Count  had  placed  in  my  hands,  and  read  the  terrible 
story  of  the  conspiracy  told  by  the  man  who  had  planned  and  per- 
petrated it. 


The  Story  continued  hy  Isidor,  Ottayio,  Baldassare  Fos- 
co;    Count  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire ;  Kniyht  Grand 

Cross  of  the  Order  of  the  Brazen  Crown  ;  Perpetual  Arch- 
Master  of  the  Bosicrucian  3Iasons  of  3Iesopotamia ;  At- 
tached (in  Honorary  Cap>acities)  to  Societies  Musical^ 
Societies  Medical^   Societies   Philosopjhical^  and  Societies 

General  Benevolent^  throughout  Europe  ;  etc.^  etc.,  etc. 

The  Count's  Xarrative. 

In  the  summer  of  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty  I  arrived  in  England, 
charged  with  a  delicate  political  mission  from  abroad.  Confidential 
persons  were  semi-officially  connected  with  me,  whose  exertions  I 
was  authorized  to  direct  —  Monsieur  and  Madame  Rubelle  being 
among  the  number.  Some  weeks  of  spare  time  were  at  my  disposal, 
before  I  entered  on  my  functions  by  establishing  myself  in  the  sub- 
urbs of  London.  Curiosity  may  stop  here,  to  ask  for  some  explana- 
tion of  those  functions  on  my  part.  I  entirely  sympathize  with  the 
request.  I  also  regret  that  diplomatic  reserve  forbids  me  to  comply 
with  it, 

I  arranged  to  pass  the  preliminary  period  of  repose,  to  which  I 
have  just  referred,  in  the  superb  mansion  of  my  late  lamented  friend, 


526  THE    WOMAN    IN    AV^HITE. 

Sir  Percival  Glyde.     Jle  arrived  from  the  Continent  with  Ids  wife.' 
/arrived  from  tlie  Continent  with  mine.     England  is  the  land  of 
domestic  happiness — how  appropriately  we  entered  it  under  these 
domestic  circumstances! 

The  bond  of  friendship  which  united  Percival  and  myself  was 
strengthened  on  this  occasion,  by  a  touching  similarity  in  the 
pecuniary  position,  on  his  side  and  on  mine.  We  both  wanted 
money.  Immense  necessity  !  Universal  want  I  Is  there  a  civilized 
human  being  who  does  not  feel  for  us  ?  How  insensible  must  that 
man  be  !     Or  how  rich  ! 

I  enter  into  no  sordid  particulars  in  discussing  this  part  of  the 
subject.  My  mind  recoils  from  them.  With  a  Roman  austerity,  I 
show  my  empty  purse  and  Percival's  to  the  shrinking  public  gaze. 
Let  us  allow  the  deplorable  fact  to  assert  itself,  once  for  all,  in  that 
manner,  and  pass  on. 

We  were  received  at  the  mansion  by  the  magnificent  creature  who 
is  inscribed  on  my  heart  as  "  Marian  " — who  is  known  in  the  colder 
atmosphere  of  Society  as  "  Miss  Halcombe." 

Just  Heaven  !  with  what  inconceivable  rapidity  I  learned  to  adore 
that  woman.  At  sixty,  I  worshiped  her  with  the  volcanic  ardor  of 
eighteen.  All  the  gold  of  my  rich  nature  was  poured  hopelessly  at 
her  feet.  My  wife  —  poor  angel  I  —  my  wife  who  adores  me,  got 
nothing  but  the  shillings  and  the  pennies.  Such  is  the  World; 
such  Man ;  such  Love.  What  are  we  (I  ask)  but  puppets  in  a  show- 
box  ?  Oh,  omnipotent  Destiny,  pull  our  strings  gently  !  Dance  us 
mercifully  off  our  miserable  little  stage  I 

The  preceding  lines,  rightly  understood,  express  an  entire  system 
of  philosophy.     It  is  Mine. 

I  resume. 

The  domestic  position  at  the  commencement  of  our  residence  at 
Blackwatcr  Park  has  been  drawn  with  amazing  accuracy,  with  pro- 
found mental  insight,  by  the  hand  of  Marian  herself.  (Pass  me  the 
intoxicating  familiarity  of  mentioning  this  sublime  creature  by  her 
Christian  name.)  Accurate  knowledge  of  the  contents  of  her  jour- 
nal— to  wliich  I  obtained  access  by  clandestine  means,  unspeakably 
precious  to  me  in  the  remembrance — warns  my  eager  pen  from  top- 
ics which  this  essentially  exhaustive  woman  has  already  made  her 
own. 

The  interests — interests,  breathless  and  immense  ! — with  which  I 
am  here  concerned,  begin  with  the  de})lorable  calamity  of  Marian's 
illness. 

The  situation  at  this  period  was,  emphatically,  a  serious  one. 
Large  sums  of  money,  due  at  a  certain  time,  were  wanted  by  Perci- 
val (I  say  nothing  of  the  modicum  e<iually  nrcessary  to  myself) ; 


THE    WOMAN   IN   WHITE.  527 

and  the  one  source  to  look  to  for  supplying  them  was  the  fortune 
of  his  wife,  of  which  not  one  farthing  was  at  his  disposal  until 
her  death.  Bad,  so  far  ;  and  worse  still  further  on.  My  lamented 
friend  had  private  troubles  of  his  own,  into  which  the  delicacy  of 
my  disinterested  attachment  to  him  forbade  me  from  inquiring  too 
curiously.  I  knew  nothing  but  that  a  woman,  named  Anne  Cather- 
ick,  was  hidden  in  the  neighborhood  ;  that  she  was  in  communica- 
tion with  Lady  Glyde ;  and  that  the  disclosure  of  a  secret,  which 
would  be  the  certain  ruin  of  Percival,  might  be  the  result.  He  had 
told  me  himself  that  he  was  a  lost  man,  unless  his  wife  was  silenced, 
and  unless  Anne  Catherick  was  found.  If  he  was  a  lost  man,  what 
would  become  of  our  pecuniary  interests  ?  Courageous  as  I  am  by 
nature,  I  absolutely  trembled  at  the  idea  ! 

The  whole  force  of  my  intelligence  was  now  directed  to  the  find- 
ing of  Anne  Catherick.  Our  money  aflairs,  important  as  they  were, 
admitted  of  delay — but  the  necessity  of  discovering  the  woman  ad- 
mitted of  none.  I  only  knew  her,  by  description,  as  presenting  an 
extraordinary  personal  resemblance  to  Lady  Glyde.  The  statement 
of  this  curious  fact — intended  merely  to  assist  me  in  identifying  the 
person  of  whom  we  were  in  search — when  coupled  with  the  addi- 
tional information  that  Anne  Catherick  had  escaped  from  a  mad- 
house, started  the  first  immense  conception  in  my  mind,  which  sub- 
sequently led  to  such  amazing  results.  That  conception  involved 
nothing  less  than  the  complete  transformation  of  two  separate  iden- 
tities. Lady  Glyde  and  Anne  Catherick  were  to  change  names, 
places,  and  destinies,  the  one  with  the  other — the  prodigious  con- 
sequences contemplated  by  the  change  being  the  gain  of  thirty 
thousand  pounds,  and  the  eternal  preservation  of  Sir  Percival's  se- 
cret. 

My  instincts  (which  seldom  err)  suggested  to  me,  on  reviewing  the 
circumstances,  that  our  invisible  Anne  would,  sooner  or  later,  return 
to  the  boat-house  at  Blackwater  Lake.  There  I  posted  myself;  pre- 
viously mentioning  to  Mrs.  Michelson,  the  housekeeper,  that  I  might 
be  found  when  wanted,  immersed  in  study,  in  that  solitary  place. 
It  is  my  rule  never  to  make  unnecessary  mysteries,  and  never  to  set 
people  suspecting  me  for  want  of  a  little  seasonable  candor  on  my 
part.  Mrs.  Michelson  believed  in  me  from  first  to  last.  This  lady- 
like person  (widow  of  a  Protestant  priest)  overflowed  with  faith. 
Touched  by  such  superfluity  of  simple  confidence,  in  a  woman  of  her 
mature  years,  I  opened  the  ample  reservoirs  of  my  nature,  and  al> 
sorbed  it  all. 

I  was  rewarded  for  posting  myself  sentinel  at  the  lake  by  the  ap- 
pearance— not  of  Anne  Catherick  herself,  but  of  the  person  in  charge 
of  her.  This  individual  also  overflowed  with  simple  faith,  which  I 
absorbed  in  mvsclf,  as  in  the  case  already  mentioned.     I  leave  her  to 


528  THE    AVOMAN    IN    -WHITE. 

clcscril)C  tlic  circumstances  (if  she  1ms  not  done  so  already)  undei 
which  slie  introduces  me  to  the  object  of  her  maternal  care.  When 
I  first  saw  Anne  Catherick,  she  was  asleep,  I  was  electrified  hy  the 
likeness  between  this  unhappy  woman  and  Lady  Glyde.  The  details 
of  the  grand  scheme,  which  had  suggested  themselves  in  outline 
only,  up  to  that  period,  occurred  to  me,  in  all  their  masterly  com- 
bination, at  the  sight  of  the  sleeping  face.  At  the  same  time,  my 
heart,  always  accessible  to  tender  influences,  dissolved  in  tears  at  the 
spectacle  of  suffering  before  me.  I  instantly  set  myself  to  impart  re- 
lief. In  other  words,  I  provided  the  necessary  stimulant  for  strength- 
ening Anne  Catherick  to  perform  the  journey  to  London. 

At  this  point,  I  enter  a  necessary  protest,  and  correct  a  lamentable 
error. 

The  best  years  of  my  life  have  been  passed  in  the  ardent  study 
of  medical  and  chemical  science.  Chemistr^^  especially,  has  always 
had  irresistible  attractions  for  me,  from  the  enormous,  the  illimitable 
power  which  the  knowledge  of  it  confers.  Chemists,  I  assert  it  em- 
phatically, might  sway,  if  they  pleased,  the  destinies  of  humanity. 
Let  me  explain  this  before  I  go  further. 

Mind,  they  say,  rules  the  world.  But  what  rules  the  mind  ?  The 
body.  The  body  (follow  me  closely  here)  lies  at  the  mercy  of  the 
most  omnipotent  of  all  potentates — the  Chemist.  Give  me — Fosco 
— chemistry;  and  when  Shakspeare  has  conceived  Hamlet,  and  sits 
down  to  execute  the  conception — with  a  few  grains  of  powder  drop- 
ped into  his  daily  food,  I  will  reduce  his  mind,  by  the  action  of  his 
body,  till  his  pen  pours  out  the  most  abject  drivel  that  has  ever  de- 
graded paper.  Under  similar  circumstances,  revive  me  the  illustri- 
ous Newton.  I  guarantee  that,  when  he  sees  the  apple  fall,  he  shall 
eat  it,  instead  of  discovering  the  principle  of  gravitation.  Nero's 
dinner  shall  transform  Nero  into  the  mildest  of  men  before  he  has 
done  digesting  it;  and  the  morning  draught  of  Alexander  the  Great 
shall  make  Alexander  run  for  his  life,  at  the  first  sight  of  the  enemy, 
the  same  afternoon.  On  my  sacred  word  of  honor,  it  is  lucky  for 
society  that  modern  chemists  are,  by  incomprehensible  good  fortune, 
the  most  hannless  of  mankind.  The  mass  are  worthy  fathers  of 
families  who  keep  shops.  The  few  are  philosophers  besotted  with 
admiration  for  the  sound  of  their  own  lecturing  voices ;  visionaries 
who  waste  their  lives  on  fantastic  impossibilities ;  or  quacks  whose 
ambition  soars  no  higher  than  our  corns.  Thus  Society  escapes; 
and  the  illimitaljle  power  of  Chemistry  remains  the  slave  of  the 
most  superficial  and  the  most  insignificant  ends. 

AVhy  this  outburst  ?     "Why  this  withering  eloquence  ? 

Because  my  conduct  has  been  misrepresented  ;  liccause  my  mo- 
tives have  been  misunderstood.     It  has  been  assumed  that  I  used 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  529 

my  vast  chemical  resources  against  Anne  Catlierick;  and  that  I 
would  have  used  them,  if  I  could,  against  the  magnificent  Marian 
herself.  Odious  insinuations  both !  All  my  interests  were  concern- 
ed (as  will  be  seen  presently)  in  the  picservation  of  Anne  Catherick's " 
life.  All  my  anxieties  were  concentrated  on  Marian  s  rescue  from 
the  hands  of  the  licensed  Imbecile  who  attended  her;  and  who 
found  my  advice  confirmed,  from  first  to  last,  by  the  physician  from 
London.  On  two  occasions  only — both  equally  harmless  to  the  in- 
dividual on  whom  I  practiced — did  I  summon  to  myself  the  assist- 
ance of  chemical  knowledge.  On  the  first  of  the  two,  after  follow- 
ing Marian  to  the  Inn  at  Blackwater  (studying,  behind  the  conven- 
ient wa^on  which  hid  me  from  her,  the  poetry  of  motion,  as  em- 
bodied in  her  walk),  I  availed  myself  of  the  services  of  my  invaluable 
wife  to  copy  one  and  to  intercept  the  other  of  tv\'o  letters  which  my 
adordd  enemy  had  intrusted  to  a  discarded  maid.  In  this  case,  the 
letters  being  in  the  bosom  of  the  girl's  dress,  Madame  Fosco  could 
only  open  them,  read  them,  perform  her  instructions,  seal  them,  and 
put  them  back  again,  by  scientific  assistance — which  assistance  I 
rendered  in  a  half-ounce  bottle.  The  second  occasion  when  the 
same  means  were  employed,  was  the  occasion  (to  which  I  shall  soon 
refer)  of  Lady  Clyde's  arrival  in  London.  Kever,  at  any  other  time, 
was  I  indebted  to  my  Art,  as  distinguished  from  myself.  To  all 
other  emergencies  and  complications  my  natural  capacity  for  grap- 
pling, single-handed,  with  circumstances,  was  invariably  equal.  I 
affirm  the  all-pervading  intelligence  of  that  capacity.  At  the  ex- 
pense of  the  Chemist,  I  vindicate  the  Man. 

Respect  this  outburst  of  generous  indignation.  It  has  inexpressi- 
bly relieved  me.     Eii  route  1    Let  us  proceed. 

Having  suggested  to  Mrs.  Clement  (or  Clements,  I  am  not  sure 
which)  that  the  best  method  of  keeping  Anne  out  of  Percival's 
reach  was  to  remove  her  to  London ;  having  found  that  my  jjropo- 
sal  was  eagerly  received ;  and  having  appointed  a  day  to  meet  the 
travelers  at  the  station,  and  to  see  them  leave  it — I  was  at  liljerty  to 
retura  to  the  house,  and  to  confront  the  difficulties  which  still  re- 
mained to  be  met. 

My  first  proceeding  was  to  avail  myself  of  the  sublime  devotion 
of  my  wife.  I  had  arranged  with  Mrs.  Clements  that  she  should 
communicate  her  London  address,  in  Anne's  interests,  to  Lady  Clyde. 
But  this  was  not  enough.  Designing  persons,  in  my  absence,  might 
shake  the  simple  confidence  of  Mrs.  Clements,  and  she  might  not 
write  after  all.  Who  could  I  find  cai^able  of  traveling  to  London 
by  the  train  she  traveled  by,  and  of  privately  seeing  her  home  ?  I 
asked  myself  this  question.  The  conjugal  part  of  me  immediately 
answered — Madame  Fosco. 

2a 


530  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

After  deciding  on  my  wife's  mission  to  London,  I  arranged  that 
the  journey  should  serve  a  double  purpose.  A  nurse  for  the  suffer- 
ing Marian,  equally  devoted  to  the  patient  and  to  myself,  was  a  ne- 
cessity of  my  position.  One  of  the  most  eminently  confidential  and 
capable  women  in  existence  was,  by  good  fortune,  at  my  disposal. 
I  refer  to  that  resijectable  matron,  Madame  Rubelle — to  whom  I  ad- 
dressed a  letter,  at  her  residence  in  London,  by  the  hands  of  my 
wife. 

On  the  appointed  day  Mrs.  Clements  and  Anne  Catherick  met 
me  at  the  station.  I  politely  saw  them  off.  I  politely  saw  Madame 
Fosco  off  by  the  same  train.  The  last  thing  at  night  my  wife  re- 
turned to  Blackwater,  having  followed  her  instructions  with  the 
most  unimpeachable  accuracy.  She  was  accomjDanied  by  Madame 
Rubelle,  and  she  brought  me  the  London  address  of  Mrs.  Clements. 
After-events  proved  this  last  precaution  to  have  been  unnecessary. 
Mrs.  Clements  punctually  informed  Lady  Clyde  of  her  place  oi' 
abode.     With  a  wary  eye  on  future  emergencies,  I  kept  the  letter. 

The  same  day  I  had  a  brief  interview  with  the  doctor,  at  which  I 
protested,  in  the  sacred  interests  of  humanity,  against  his  treatment 
of  Marian's  case.  He  was  insolent,  as  all  ignorant  people  are.  I 
showed  no  resentment ;  I  deferred  quarreling  vrith  him  till  it  was 
necessary  to  quarrel  to  some  puqiose. 

My  next  proceeding  was  to  leave  Blackwater  myself.  I  had  my 
London  residence  to  take,  in  anticipation  of  coming  events,  I  had 
also  a  little  business,  of  the  domestic  sort,  to  transact  with  Mr.  Fred- 
erick Fairlie.  I  found  the  house  I  wanted  in  St.  John*s  Wood.  I 
found  Mr.  Fairlie  at  Limmeridge,  Cumberland. 

My  own  private  familiarity  with  the  nature  of  Marian's  corre- 
spondence had  previously  informed  me  that  she  had  written  to  Mr. 
Fairlie,  proposing,  as  a  relief  to  Lady  Clyde's  matrimonial  embarrass- 
ments, to  take  her  on  a  visit  to  her  uncle  in  Cumberland.  This  let- 
ter I  had  wisely  allowed  to  reach  its  destination,  feeling,  at  the  time, 
that  it  could  do  no  harm,  and  might  do  good.  I  now  presented  my- 
self before  Mr.  Fairlie,  to  support  IMarian's  own  proposal,  with  cer- 
tain modifications  which,  happily  for  the  success  of  my  plans,  were 
rendered  really  inevitable  by  her  illness.  It  was  necessary  that 
Lady  Clyde  should  leave  Blackwater  alone,  by  her  uncle's  invita- 
tion, and  that  she  should  rest  a  night  on  the  journey  at  her  aunt's 
house  (the  house  I  had  in  St.  John's  Wood),  by  her  uncle's  express 
advice.  To  achieve  these  results,  and  to  secure  a  note  of  invitation 
which  could  be  shown  to  Lady  Clyde,  were  the  objects  of  my  visit 
to  Mr.  Fairlie.  When  I  have  mentioned  that  this  gentleman  was 
equally  feeble  in  mind  and  body,  and  that  I  let  loose  the  whole  force 
of  my  character  on  him,  I  have  said  enough.  I  came,  saw,  and  con- 
quered Fairlie. 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  531 

On  my  return  to  Blackwater  Park  (with  the  letter  of  invitation)  I 
found  that  the  doctor's  imbecile  treatment  of  Marian's  case  had  led 
to  the  most  alarming  results.  The  fever  had  turned  to  typhus. 
Lady  Glyde,  on  the  day  of  my  return,  tried  to  force  herself  into  tlie 
room  to  nurse  her  sister.  She  and  I  had  no  affinities  of  sympathy  ; 
she  had  committed  the  unpardonable  outrage  on  my  sensibilities  of 
calling  me  a  Spy ;  she  was  a  stumbling-block  in  my  way  and  in 
Percival's — but,  for  all  that,  my  magnanimity  forljade  me  to  put  her 
in  danger  of  infection  with  my  own  hand.  At  the  same  time  I  of- 
fered no  hinderance  to  her  putting  herself  in  danger.  If  she  had 
succeeded  in  doing  so,  the  intricate  knot  which  I  was  slowly  and  pa- 
tiently operating  on  might  perhaps  have  been  cut  by  circumstances. 
As  it  was,  the  doctor  interfered,  and  she  was  kept  out  of  the  room. 

I  had  myself  previously  recommended  sending  for  advice  to  Lon- 
don. This  course  had  been  now  taken.  The  physician,  on  his  ar- 
rival, confirmed  my  view  of  the  case.  The  crisis  was  serious.  But 
we  had  hope  of  our  charming  patient  on  the  fifth  day  from  tlie  ap- 
pearance of  the  typhus.  I  was  only  once  absent  from  Blackwater 
at  this  time — when  I  went  to  London  by  the  morning  train,  to  make 
the  final  arrangements  at  my  house  in  St.  John's  Wood ;  to  assure 
myself,  by  private  inquiry,  that  Mrs.  Clements  had  not  moved ;  and 
to  settle  one  or  two  little  preliminary  matters  with  the  husband  of 
Madame  Rubelle.  I  returned  at  night.  Five  days  afterward,  the 
physician  pronounced  our  interesting  Marian  to  be  out  of  all  dan- 
ger, and  to  be  in  need  of  nothing  but  careful  nursing.  This  was 
the  time  I  had  waited  for.  Now  that  medical  attendance  was  no 
longer  indispensable,  I  played  the  first  move  in  the  game  by  assert- 
ing myself  against  the  doctor.  He  was  one  among  many  witnesses 
in  my  way  whom  it  was  necessary  to  remove.  A  lively  altercation 
between  us  (in  which  Percival,  previously  instructed  by  me,  refused 
to  interfere)  served  the  purpose  in  view.  I  descended  on  the  miser- 
able man  in  an  u'resistible  avalanche  of  indignation,  and  swept  him 
from  the  house. 

The  servants  were  the  next  incumbrances  to  get  rid  of.  Again  I 
instructed  Percival  (whose  moral  courage  required  perpetual  stimu- 
lants), and  Mrs.  Michelson  was  amazed  one  day  by  hearing  from  her 
master  that  the  establishment  was  to  be  broken  up.  We  cleared  the 
house  of  all  the  servants  but  one,  who  was  kept  for  domestic  pur- 
poses, and  whose  lumpish  stupidity  we  could  trust  to  make  no  em- 
barrassing discoveries.  When  they  were  gone,  nothing  remained 
but  to  relieve  ourselves  of  Mrs.  Michelson — a  result  which  was  easi- 
ly achieved  by  sending  this  amiable  lady  to  find  lodgings  for  her 
mistress  at  the  sea-side. 

The  circumstances  were  now — exactly  what  they  were  required 
to  be.     Lady  Glyde  was  confined  to  her  room  by  nervous  illness; 


532  THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE. 

and  tlic  lumpish  house-maid  (I  forget  her  name)  was  shut  up  there 
at  night,  in  attendance  on  lier  mistress.  Marian,  thougli  fast  recov- 
ering, still  kept  her  bed,  with  Mrs.  Rubelle  for  nurse.  No  other  liv- 
ing creatures  but  my  wife,  nn'self,  and  Percival  were  in  the  house. 
With  all  the  chances  thus  in  our  favor,  I  confronted  the  next  emer- 
gency, and  played  the  second  move  in  the  game. 

The  object  of  the  second  move  was  to  induce  Lady  Glyde  to 
leave  Blackwater,  unaccompanied  by  her  sister.  Unless  we  could 
persuade  her  that  Marian  had  gone  on  to  Cumberland  first,  there 
was  no  chance  of  removing  her,  of  her  own  free-will,  from  the  house. 
To  produce  this  necessary  operation  in  her  mind,  we  concealed  our 
interesting  invalid  in  one  of  the  uninhabited  bedrooms  at  Blackwa- 
ter. At  the  dead  of  night,  Madame  Fosco,  Madame  Rubelle,  and 
myself  (Percival  not  being  cool  enough  to  be  trusted),  accomplished 
the  concealment.  The  scene  was  picturesque,  mysterious,  dramatic, 
in  the  highest  degree.  By  my  directions,  the  bed  had  been  made 
in  the  morning  on  a  strong  movable  frame-work  of  wood.  We  had 
only  to  lift  the  frame -work  gently  at  the  head  and  foot,  and  to 
transport  our  patient  where  we  pleased,  without  disturbing  herself 
or  her  bed.  No  chemical  assistance  was  needed,  or  used,  in  this 
case.  Our  interesting  Marian  lay  in  the  deep  repose  of  convales- 
cence. We  placed  the  candles  and  opened  the  doors,  beforehand. 
I,  in  right  of  my  great  personal  strength,  took  the  head  of  the 
frame-work — my  wife  and  Madame  Rubelle  took  the  foot.  I  bore 
my  share  of  that  inestimably  precious  burden  with  a  manly  tender- 
ness, with  a  fatherly  care.  Where  is  the  modern  Rembrandt  who 
could  depict  our  midnight  procession  ?  Alas  for  the  Arts  I  alas  for 
this  most  pictorial  of  subjects  I  the  modern  Rembrandt  is  nowhere 
to  be  found. 

The  next  morning  my  wife  and  I  started  for  London,  leaving  Ma- 
rian secluded,  in  the  uninhabited  middle  of  the  house,  under  care 
of  Madame  Rubelle;  who  kindly  consented  to  imprison  herself  with 
her  patient  for  two  or  three  days.  Before  taking  our  departure,  I 
gave  Percival  Mr.  Fairlie's  letter  of  invitation  to  his  ni^ce  (instruct- 
ing her  to  sleep  on  the  journey  to  Cumberland  at  her  aunt's  house), 
with  directions  to  show  it  to  Lady  Glyde  on  hearing  from  me.  I 
also  obtained  from  him  the  address  of  the  Asylum  in  which  Anne 
Catherick  had  been  confined,  and  a  letter  to  the  proprietor,  an- 
nouncing to  that  gentleman  the  return  of  his  runaway  patient  to 
medical  care. 

I  had  arranged,  at  my  last  visit  to  the  metropolis,  to  have  our 
modest  domestic  establishment  ready  to  receive  us  when  we  arrived 
in  London  by  the  early  train.  In  consequence  of  this  wise  precau- 
tion, we  were  cnal)led  that  same  day  to  play  the  third  move  in  the 
game— the  getting  possession  of  Anne  Catherick. 


THE    AVOMAN    IN    WHITE.  533 

Dates  are  of  importance  here.  I  combine  in  m^-self  the  opposite 
characteristics  of  a  Man  of  Sentiment  and  a  Man  of  Business.  I 
have  all  the  dates  at  my  fingers'  ends. 

On  Wednesday,  the  24th  of  July,  1850,  I  sent  my  wife,  in  a  cab, 
to  clear  Mrs.  Clements  out  of  the  way,  in  the  first  place.  A  sup- 
posed message  from  Lady  Glyde  in  London  was  sufficient  to  obtain 
this  result.  Mrs.  Clements  was  taken  away  in  the  cab,  and  was  left 
in  the  cab,  while  my  wife  (on  pretense  of  purchasing  something  at 
a  shop)  gave  her  the  slip,  and  returned  to  receive  her  expected  visit- 
or at  our  house  in  St.  John's  Wood.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  add 
that  the  visitor  had  been  described  to  the  servants  as  "Lady  Glyde.  ' 

In  the  mean  while  I  had  followed  in  another  cab,  with  a  note  for 
Anne  Catherick,  merely  mentioning  that  Lady  Glyde  intended  to 
keep  Mrs.  Clements  to  spend  the  day  with  her,  and  that  she  was  to 
join  them,  under  care  of  the  good  gentleman  waiting  outside,  who 
had  already  saved  her  from  discovery  in  Hampshire  by  Sir  Perci- 
val.  The  "good  gentleman"  sent  in  this  note  by  a  street  boy,  and 
paused  for  results  a  door  or  two  fiirther  on.  At  the  moment  when 
Anne  appeared  at  the  house  door  and  closed  it,  this  excellent  man 
had  the  cab  door  open  ready  for  her — absorbed  her  into  the  vehicle 
— and  drove  off. 

(Pass  me,  here,  one  exclamation  in  parenthesis.  How  interesting 
this  is  I) 

On  the  way  to  Forest  Road  my  companion  showed  no  fear.  I  can 
be  paternal — no  man  more  so — when  I  j^lease ;  and  I  was  intensely 
paternal  on  this  occasion.  What  titles  I  had  to  her  confidence  I  I 
had  compounded  the  medicine  Avhich  had  done  her  good ;  I  had 
warned  her  of  her  danger  from  Sir  Percival.  Perhaps  I  trusted  too 
implicitly  to  these  titles  ;  perhaps  I  underrated  the  keenness  of  the 
lower  instincts  in  persons  of  weak  intellect — it  is  certain  that  I  neg- 
lected to  prejiare  her  sufficiently  for  a  disappointment  on  entering 
my  house.  When  I  took  her  into  the  drawing-room — when  she 
saw  no  one  present  but  Madame  Fosco,  who  was  a  stranger  to  her 
— she  exhibited  the  most  violent  agitation  :  if  she  had  scented  dan- 
ger in  the  air,  as  a  dog  scents  the  presence  of  some  creature  unseen, 
her  alarm  could  not  have  displayed  itself  more  suddenly  and  more 
causelessly.  I  interposed  in  vain.  The  fear  from  whicli  she  was 
suffering  I  might  have  soothed — but  the  serious  heart  disease,  un- 
der which  she  labored,  was  beyond  the  reach  of. all  moral  pallia- 
tives. To  my  unspeakable  horror,  she  was  seized  with  convulsions 
— a  shock  to  the  system,  in  her  condition,  which  might  have  laid 
her  dead  at  any  moment  at  our  feet. 

The  nearest  doctor  was  sent  for,  and  was  told  that  "  Lady  Glyde  " 
required  his  immediate  ser^-ices.  To  my  infinite  relief,  he  was  a  ca- 
pable man.     I  rej^resented  my  visitor  to  him  as  a  person  of  v>'eak  in- 


634  THE    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

tcllect,  and  subject  to  delusions ;  and  I  arranged  that  no  nurse  but 
uiy  wile  sliould  watch  in  the  sick-room.  The  unhaj)py  woman  was 
too  ill,  however,  to  cause  any  anxiety  about  what  she  might  say. 
The  one  dread  which  now  oppressed  me  was  the  dread  that  the 
false  Lady  Glyde  might  die  before  the  true  Lady  Glyde  arrived  in 
London. 

I  had  written  a  note  in  the  morning  to  "vladame  Rubelle,  telling 
her  to  join  me  at  her  husband's  house  on  tlie  evening  of  Friday, 
the  26th ;  with  another  note  to  Percival,  warning  him  to  show  his 
wife  her  uncle's  letter  of  invitation,  to  assert  that  Marian  had  gone 
on  before  her,  and  to  dispatch  her  to  town  by  the  midday  train  on 
the  2Gth  also.  On  reflection,  I  had  felt  the  necessity,  in  Anne  Cath- 
erick's  state  of  health,  of  precipitating  events,  and  of  having  Lady 
Glyde  at  my  disposal  earlier  than  I  had  originally  contemplated. 
What  fresh  directions,  in  the  terrible  uncertainty  of  my  position, 
could  I  now  issue  ?  I  could  do  nothing  but  trust  to  chance  and 
the  doctor.  My  emotions  expressed  themselves  in  pathetic  apos- 
trophes— which  I  was  just  self-possessed  enough  to  couple,  in  the 
hearing  of  other  people,  with  the  name  of  "  Lady  Glyde."'  In  all 
other  respects,  Fosco,  on  that  memoraljle  day,  w^as  Fosco  shrouded 
in  total  eclipse. 

She  passed  a  bad  night — she  awoke  worn  out — but  later  in  the 
day  she  revived  amazingly.  My  elastic  spirits  revived  with  her. 
I  could  receive  no  answers  from  Percival  and  Madame  Rubelle  till 
the  morning  of  the  next  day — the  26th.  In  anticipation  of  their 
following  my  directions,  which,  accident  apart,  I  knew  they  would 
do,  I  went  to  secure  a  fly  to  fetch  Lady  Glyde  from  the  railway; 
directing  it  to  be  at  my  house  on  the  26th,  at  two  o'clock.  After 
seeing  the  order  entered  in  the  Ijook,  I  went  on  to  arrange  matters 
with  ]\ronfeieur  Rul)elle.  I  also  procured  the  services  of  two  gentle- 
men who  could  furnish  me  with  the  necessary  certificates  of  lunacy. 
One  of  them  I  knew  personally;  the  other  was  known  to  Monsieur 
Rubelle.  Both  were  men  whose  vigorous  minds  soared  superior  to 
narrow  scruples — both  M-ere  laboring  under  temporary  embarrass- 
ments— both  believed  in  me. 

It  was  past  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  before  I  returned  from 
the  performance  of  these  duties.  When  I  got  back,  Anne  Cather- 
ick  was  dead.  Dead  on  the  25tli ;  and  Lady  Glyde  was  not  to  ar- 
rive in  London  till  the  26th  ! 

I  was  stunned.     Meditate  on  that.     Fosco  stunned  ! 

It  was  too  late  to  retrace  our  steps.  Before  my  return,  the  doctor 
liad  ofticiously  undertaken  to  save  me  all  trouble,  by  registering  the 
death  on  the  date  vrhen  it  happened,  with  his  own  hand.  My  grand 
scheme,  unassailable  liitherto,  had  its  weak  place  now — no  cftbrts  on 
my  part  could  alter  the  fatal  event  of  the  2dtli.     I  turned  manful-. 


THE    AVOMAX   IN   WHITE.  535 

ly  to  the  future.  Pcrcival's  interests  aud  mine  Ijeing  still  at  stake, 
nothing  was  left  but  to  play  the  game  through  to  the  end.  I  re- 
called my  impenetrable  calm — and  played  it. 

On  the  morning  of  the  26th  Percival's  letter  reached  me,  announ- 
cing his  wife's  arrival  by  the  midday  train.  Madame  Rubelle  also 
wrote  to  say  she  would  follow  iu  the  evening.  I  started  in  the  fly, 
leaving  the  false  Lady  Glyde  dead  in  the  house,  to  receive  the  tnie 
Lady  Glyde,  on  her  arrival  by  the  railway  at  three  o'clock.  Hidden 
under  the  seat  of  the  carriage,  I  carried  with  me  all  the  clothes  Anne 
Catherick  had  worn  on  coming  into  my  house — they  were  destined 
to  assist  the  resurrection  of  the  woman  who  was  dead  in  the  person 
of  the  woman  who  was  living.  What  a  situation !  I  suggest  it  to 
the  rising  romance  M^'iters  of  England.  I  offer  it,  as  totally  new,  to 
the  worn-out  dramatists  of  France. 

Lady  Glyde  was  at  the  station.  There  was  great  crowding  and 
confusion,  and  more  delay  than  I  liked  (in  case  any  of  her  friends 
had  happened  to  be  on  the  spot),  in  reclaiming  her  luggage.  Her 
first  questions,  as  we  drove  off,  implored  me  to  tell  her  news  of  her 
sister.  I  invented  news  of  the  most  pacifying  kind ;  assuring  her 
that  she  was  about  to  see  her  sister  at  my  house.  My  house,  on 
this  occasion  only,  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  Leicester  Square, 
and  was  in  the  occupation  of  Monsieur  Rubelle,  who  received  us  in 
the  hall. 

I  took  my  visitor  up  stairs  into  a  back  room  ;  the  two  medical  gen- 
tlemen being  there  in  waiting  on  the  floor  beneath,  to  see  the  patient, 
and  to  give  me  their  certificates.  After  quieting  Lady  Glyde  by  the 
necessary  assurances  about  her  sister,  I  introduced  my  friends,  sep- 
arately, to  her  presence.  They  performed  tlie  formalities  of  the  oc- 
casion, briefly,  intelligently,  conscientiously.  I  entered  the  room 
again,  as  soon  as  they  had  left  it ;  and  at  once  precipitated  events 
by  a  reference,  of  the  alanniug  kind,  to  "  3Iiss  Halcombe's  "  state 
of  health. 

Results  followed  as  I  had  anticipated.  Lady  Glyde  became  fright- 
ened, and  turned  faint.  For  the  second  time,  and  the  last,  I  called 
Science  to  my  assistance.  A  medicated  glass  of  water,  and  a  medi- 
cated bottle  of  smelling-salts,  relieved  her  of  all  further  embarrass- 
ment and  alarm.  Additional  applications,  later  in  the  evening,  pro- 
cured her  the  inestimable  blessing  of  a  good  night's  rest.  Madame 
Rubelle  arrived  in  time  to  preside  at  Lady  Glyde's  toilet.  Her  own  ^- 
clothes  were  taken  away  from  her  at  night,  and  Anne  Catherick's 
were  put  on  her  in  the  morning,  with  the  strictest  regard  to  propri- 
ety, by  the  matronly  hands  of  the  good  Rubelle.  Throughout  the 
day  I  kept  our  patient  in  a  state  of  partially-suspended  conscious- 
ness, until  the  dexterous  assistance  of  my  medical  friends  enabled 
me  to  procui-e  the  necessary  order  rather  earlier  than  I  had  ventured 


^536  THE    WO^fAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

to  liopc.  That  evening  (the  evening  of  the  27th)  Madame  Rubelle 
and  I  took  our  revived  "Anne  Catherick  "  to  the  Asylum.  She  was 
received  -vvitJi  great  surprise — but  without  suspicion ;  thanks  to  the 
order  and  certificates,  to  Percival's  letter,  to  the  likeness,  to  the 
clothes,  and  to  the  patient's  own  confused  mental  condition  at  the 
time.  I  returned  at  once  to  assist  Madame  Fosco  in  the  prepara- 
tions for  the  burial  of  the  false  "  Lady  Glyde,"  having  the  clothes 
f.nd  luggage  of  the  true  "Lady  Glyde"'  in  my  possession.  They 
were  afterward  sent  to  Cumberland  by  the  conveyance  which  was 
used  for  the  funeral.  I  attended  the  funeral  with  becoming  dignity, 
attired  in  the  deepest  mourning.    ^ 

My  narrative  of  these  remarkable  events,  written  under  equally 
remarkable  circumstances,  closes  here.  The  minor  precautions 
which  I  observed  in  communicating  with  Limmeridge  House  are 
already  known — so  is  the  magnificent  success  of  my  enterprise — so 
are  the  solid  pecuniary  results  which  followed  it.  I  have  to  assert, 
with  the  whole  force  of  my  conviction,  that  the  one  weak  place  in 
my  scheme  would  never  have  been  found  out,  if  the  one  weak  place 
in  my  heart  had  not  been  discovered  first.  Nothing  but  my  fatal 
admiration  for  Marian  restrained  me  from  stepping  in  to  my  own 
rescue  when  she  effected  her  sister's  escape.  I  ran  the  risk,  and 
trusted  in  the  complete  destruction  of  Lady  Clyde's  identity.  If 
either  Marian  or  Mr.  Hartright  attempted  to  assert  that  identity, 
they  would  publicly  expose  themselves  to  the  imputation  of  sustain- 
ing a  rank  deception ;  they  vrould  be  distrusted  and  discredited  ac- 
cordingly ;  and  they  would,  therefore,  be  powerless  to  place  my  in- 
terests, or  Percival's  secret,  in  jeopardy.  I  committed  one  error  in 
tnisting  myself  to  such  a  blindfold  calculation  of  chances  as  this.  I 
committed  another  when  Percival  had  paid  the  penalty  of  his  own 
obstinacy  and  violence,  by  granting  Lady  Glyde  a  second  reprieve 
from  the  mad-house,  and  allowing  Mr.  Hartright  a  second  chance 
of  escaping  me.  In  brief,  Fosco,  at  this  serious  crisis,  M^as  untrue  to 
himself.  Deplorable  and  uncharacteristic  fault !  Behold  the  cause, 
in  my  Heart — behold,  in  the  image  of  Marian  Halcombe,  the  first 
and  last  weakness  of  Fosco's  life  ! 

At  the  ripe  age  of  sixty,  I  make  this  unparalleled  confession. 
Youths  !  I  invoke  your  sympathy.     Maidens  I  I  claim  your  tears. 

A  word  more  —  and  the  attention  of  the  reader  (concentrated 
breathlessly  on  myself)  shall  be  released. 

!My  own  mental  insight  informs  me  that  three  inevitable  questions 
will  be  asked  here  by  persons  of  inquiring  minds.  They  shall  be 
stated  :  they  shall  be  answered. 

First  question.     What  is  the  secret  of  Madame  Fosco's  unhesita- 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  537 

ting  devotion  of  lierself  to  the  fiilfillment  of  my  boldest  wishes,  to 
the  furtherance  of  my  deepest  plans  ?  I  might  answer  tliis  by  sim- 
ply referring  to  my  own  character,  and  by  asking,  in  my  turn  : 
Where,  in  the  history  of  the  ^vorld,  has  a  man  of  my  order  ever  been 
found  v/ithout  a  woman  in  the  background,  self-immolated  on  the 
altar  of  his  life  ?  But  I  remember  that  I  am  writing  in  England ;  I 
remember  that  I  was  married  in  England — and  I  ask,  if  a  woman's 
marriage  obligations  in  this  country  provide  for  her  private  opinion 
of  her  husband's  principles  ?  No  !  They  charge  her  unreservedly 
to  love,  honor,  and  obey  him.  That  is  exactly  what  my  wife  has 
done.  I  stand  here  on  a  supreme  moral  elevation,  and  I  loftily 
assert  her  accurate  performance  of  her  conjugal  duties.  Silence, 
Calumny  I     Your  sympathy.  Wives  of  England,  for  Madame  Fosco  ! 

Second  question.  If  Anne  Catherick  had  not  died  when  she  did, 
what  should  I  have  done  ?  I  should,  in  that  case,  have  assisted 
woni-out  Nature  in  finding  permanent  repose.  I  should  have  open- 
ed the  doors  of  the  Prison  of  Life,  and  have  extended  to  the  captive 
(incurably  afilicted  in  mind  and  body  both)  a  happy  release. 

Third  question.  On  a  calm  revision  of  all  the  circumstances — Is 
my  conduct  worthy  of  any  serious  blame  ?  Most  emphatically,  No  ! 
Have  I  not  carefully  avoided  exposing  myself  to  the  odium  of  com- 
mitting unnecessary  crime  ?  With  my  vast  resources  in  chemistiy, 
I  might  have  taken  Lady  Glyde's  life.  At  immense  personal  sacri- 
fice, I  followed  the  dictates  of  my  own  ingenuity,  my  own  humanity, 
my  own  caution,  and  took  her  identity  instead.  Judge  me  by  what 
I  might  have  done.  How^  comparatively  innocent — how  indirectly 
virtuous  I  appear,  in  what  I  really  did  ! 

I  announced,  on  beginning  it,  that  this  narrative  would  be  a  re- 
markable document.  It  has  entirely  answered  my  expectations. 
Eeceive  these  fervid  lines — my  last  legacy  to  the  country  I  leave  for- 
ever.    They  are  worthy  of  the  occasion,  and  worthy  of 

Fosco. 


The  Story  concluded  by  Walter  Haeteigiit. 
I. 
When  I  closed  the  last  leaf  of  the  Count's  manuscript,  the  half- 
hour  during  which  I  had  engaged  to  remain  at  Forest  Road  had  ex- 
pired. Monsieur  Rubelle  looked  at  his  watch,  and  bowed.  I  rose 
immediately,  and  left  the  agent  in  jDossession  of  the  empty  house. 
I  never  saw  him  again ;  I  never  heard  more  of  him  or  of  his  wife. 
Out  of  the  dark  by-ways  of  villainy  and  deceit,  they  had  crawled 
across  our  path — into  the  same  by-ways  they  crawled  back  secretly, 
and  were  lost, 

23* 


538  THE  woiiAx  in  white. 

Ill  :i  quarter  of  an  hour  after  leaving  Forest  Road,  I  was  at  hoir-y 
agiin. 

But  few  words  sufficed  to  tell  Laura  and  Marian  how  my  desper- 
ate venture  had  ended,  and  wliat  the  next  event  in  our  lives  was 
likely  to  be.  I  left  all  details  to  be  described  later  in  the  day, 
and  hastened  back  to  St.  Jolm's  Wood,  to  see  the  person  of  whom 
Count  Fosco  had  ordered  the  fly,  when  he  went  to  meet  Laura  at 
the  station. 

The  address  in  my  possession  led  me  to  some  "livery-stables" 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant  from  Forest  Road.  The  proprietor 
proved  to  be  a  civil  and  respectable  man.  When  I  exjilained  that 
an  important  family  matter  obliged  me  to  ask  him  to  refer  to  his 
books  for  the  purpose  of  ascertaining  a  date  with  which  the  record 
of  his  business  transactions  might  supply  me,  he  offered  no  objection 
to  granting  my  request.  The  book  was  produced  ;  and  there,  under 
the  date  of  "  July  26th,  1850,"  the  order  was  entered,  in  these  words : 

'•  Brougham  to  Count  Fosco,  5  Forest  Road.  Two  o'clock.  (John 
Owen.)" 

I  found,  on  inquiry,  that  the  name  of  ''  John  Owen,"  attached  to 
the  entry,  referred  to  the  man  who  had  been  employed  to  drive  the 
fly.  He  was  then  at  work  in  the  stable-yard,  and  was  sent  for  to 
see  me,  at  my  request. 

"  Do  you  remember  driving  a  gentleman,  in  the  month  of  July 
last,  from  Number  Five  Forest  Road,  to  the  Waterloo  Bridge  sta- 
tion ?"  I  asked. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  man  ;  "  I  can't  exactly  say  I  do." 

"Perhaps  you  remember  the  gentleman  himself?  Can  you  call 
to  mind  driving  a  foreigner  last  summer — a  tall  gentleman,  and  re- 
markably fat  ?" 

The  man's  face  brightened  directly.  "  I  remember  him,  sir !  The 
fattest  gentleman  as  ever  I  see — and  the  heaviest  customer  as  ever  I 
drove.  Yes,  yes — I  call  him  to  mind,  sir.  We  did  go  to  the  sta- 
tion, and  it  icns  from  Forest  Road.  There  was  a  parrot,  or  summut 
like  it,  screeching  in  the  window.  The  gentleman  was  in  a  mor- 
tal hurry  about  the  lady's  luggage ;  and  he  gave  me  a  handsome 
present  for  looking  sharp  and  getting  the  l)oxes." 

Getting  the  boxes  !  I  recollected  immediately  that  Laura's  own 
account  of  herself,  on  her  arrival  in  London,  described  her  lug- 
gage as  being  collected  for  her  by  some  person  whom  Count  Fosco 
brought  with  him  to  the  station.     This  was  the  man. 

"Did  you  see  the  lady?"  I  asked.  "What  did  she  look  like? 
Was  she  young  or  old  ?" 

"  Well,  sir,  what  with  the  hurry  and  the  crowd  of  people  pushing 
about,  I  can't  rightly  say  what  the  lady  looked  like.  I  can't  call 
nothing  to  mind  about  her  that  I  know  of— excepting  her  name."  . 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  539 

"  You  remember  licr  name  I"  * 

"  Yes,  sir.     Her  name  was  Lady  Glyde." 

"  How  do  you  come  to  remember  that,  when  you  have  forgotten 
what  she  looked  like  ?'' 

The  man  smiled,  and  shifted  his  feet  in  some  little  embarrass- 
ment. 

'•  Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,''  he  said,  '•  I  hadn't  been  long 
married  at  that  time  ;  and  my  wife's  name,  before  she  changed  it 
for  mine,  was  the  same  as  the  lady's— meaning  the  name  of  Glyde, 
sir.  The  lady  mentioned  it  herself.  '  Is  your  name  on  your  boxes, 
ma'am  V  says  I.  '  Yes,'  says  she,  '  my  name  is  on  my  luggage — it  is 
Lady  Glyde.'  ^  Come  I'  I  says  to  myself,  '  I've  a  bad  head  for  gen- 
tlefolks' names  in  general — but  this  one  comes  like  an  old  friend,  at 
any  rate.'  I  can't  say  nothing  about  the  time,  sir  :  it  might  be  nigh 
on  a  year  ago,  or  it  mightn't.  But  I  can  swear  to  the  stout  gentle- 
man, and  swear  to  the  lady's  name." 

There  was  no  need  that  he  should  remember  the  time ;  the  date 
was  positively  established  by  his  master's  order-book.  I  felt  at  once 
that  the  means  were  now  in  my  power  of  striking  down  the  whole 
conspiracy  at  a  blow  with  the  irresistible  weapon  of  plain  fact. 
Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  I  took  the  proprietor  of  the  livery- 
stables  aside,  and  told  him  what  the  real  importance  was  of  the  evi- 
dence of  his  order-book  and  the  evidence  of  his  driver.  An  ar- 
rangement to  compensate  him  for  the  temporary  loss  of  the  man's 
services  was  easily  made,  and  a  copy  of  the  entry  in  the  book  was 
taken  by  myself,  and  certified  as  true  by  the  master's  own  signature. 
I  left  the  livery-stables,  having  settled  that  John  Owen  was  to  hold 
himself  at  my  disposal  for  the  next  three  days,  or  for  a  longer  pe- 
riod, if  necessity  required  it. 

I  now  had  in  my  possession  all  the  papers  that  I  wanted ;  the  dis- 
trict registrar's  own  copy  of  the  certificate  of  death,  and  Sir  Perci- 
val's  dated  letter  to  the  Count,  being  safe  in  my  pocket-book. 

With  this  written  evidence  about  me,  and  with  the  coachman's 
answers  fresh  in  my  memory,  I  next  turned  my  steps,  for  the  first 
time  since  the  beginning  of  all  my  inquiries,  in  the  direction  of  Mr. 
Kyrle's  oflice.  One  of  my  objects  in  paying  him  this  second  visit 
was,  necessarily,  to  tell  him  what  I  had  done.  The  other  was  to 
warn  him  of  my  resolution  to  take  my  wife  to  Limmeridge  the  next 
morning,  and  to  have  her  publicly  received  and  recognized  in  her 
uncle's  house.  I  left  it  to  Mr,  Kyrle  to  decide  under  these  circum- 
stances, and  in  Mr.  Gilmore's  absence,  whether  he  was  or  was  not 
bound,  as  the  family  solicitor,  to  be  present  on  that  occasion  in  the 
family  interests. 

I  will  say  nothing  of  Mr.  Kyrfe's  amazement,  or  of  the  terms  in 
which  he  expressed  his  opinion  of  my  conduct,  from  the  first  stage 


640  THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE. 

of  the  investigation  to  the  last.  It  is  only  necessary  to  mention  that 
he  at  once  decided  on  accompanying  us  to  Cumberland. 

We  started  the  next  morning  by  the  early  train.  Laura,  Marian, 
Mr.  Kyrle,  and  myself  in  one  carriage,  and  John  Owen,  with  a  clerk 
from  Mr.  Kyrle's  office,  occupying  places  in  another.  On  reaching 
the  Limmeridge  station,  we  went  first  to  the  flirm-house  at  Todd's 
Corner.  It  was  my  firm  determination  that  Laura  should  not  enter 
her  uncle's  house  till  she  appeared  there  publicly  recognized  as  his 
niece.  I  left  Marian  to  settle  the  question  of  accommodation  with 
Mrs.  Todd  as  soon  as  the  good  woman  had  recovered  from  the  be- 
wilderment of  hearing  what  our  errand  was  in  Cumberland  ;  and  I 
arranged  with  her  husband  that  John  Owen  was  to  be  committed  to 
the  ready  hospitality  of  the  farm  -  servants.  These  preliminaries 
completed,  Mr.  Kyrle  and  I  set  forth  together  for  Limmeridge  House. 

I  can  not  write  at  any  length  of  our  interview  with  Mr.  Fairlie, 
for  I  can  not  recall  it  to  mind,  without  feelings  of  impatience  and 
contempt,  which  make  the  scene,  even  in  remembrance  only,  utterly 
repulsive  to  me.  I  prefer  to  record  simply  that  I  carried  my  point. 
Mr.  Fairlie  attempted  to  treat  us  on  his  customary  plan.  We  passed 
without  notice  his  polite  insolence  at  the  outset  of  the  interview\ 
We  heard  without  sympathy  the  protestations  with  which  he  tried 
next  to  persuade  us  that  the  disclosure  of  the  conspiracy  had  over- 
whelmed him.  He  absolutely  whined  and  whimpered  at  last  like  a 
fretful  child.  "  How  w^as  he  to  know  that  his  niece  was  alive,  when 
he  was  told  that  she  was  dead  ?  He  would  welcome  dear  Laura 
with  i^leasure,  if  we  would  only  allow  him  time  to  recover.  Did  we 
think  he  looked  as  if  he  w^anted  hurrying  into  his  grave  ?  No.  Then 
why  hurry  him  ?''  He  reiterated  these  remonstrances  at  every  avail- 
able opportunity,  until  I  checked  them  once  for  all  by  placing  him 
firmly  between  two  inevitable  alternatives.  I  gave  him  his  choice 
between  doing  his  niece  justice  on  my  terms,  or  facing  the  conse- 
quences of  a  public  assertion  of  her  existence  in  a  court  of  law.  Mr. 
Kyrle,  to  whom  he  turned  for  help,  told  him  plainly  that  he  must 
decide  the  question  then  and  there.  Characteristically  choosing  the 
alternative  which  promised  soonest  to  release  him  from  all  personal 
anxiety,  he  announced,  with  a  sudden  outburst  of  energy,  that  he 
was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  any  more  bullying,  and  that  we  might 
do  as  we  pleased. 

Mr.  Kyrle  and  I  at  once  went  down  stairs,  and  agreed  upon  a  form 
of  letter  wh".'h  was  to  be  sent  round  to  the  tenants  who  had  attend- 
ed the  false  luneral,  summoning  them,  in  Mr.  Fairlie's  name,  to  as- 
semble in  Limmeridge  House  on  the  next  day  but  one.  An  order, 
referring  to  the  same  date,  was  also  written,  directing  a  statuary  in 
Carlisle  to  send  a  man  to  Limmerfdge  church-yard,  for  the  purpose 
of  erasing  an  inscription — Mr.  Kyrle,  who  had  arranged  to  sleep  in 


THE    WOMAN   IN    WHITE.  541 

the  house,  imdertaking  that  Mr,  Fairlie  sliould  hear  these  letters 
read  to  him,  and  sliould  sign  them  with  his  own  hand. 

I  occupied  the  interval  day  at  the  farm  in  writing  a  plain  narra- 
tive of  the  conspiracy,  and  in  adding  to  it  a  statement  of  the  prac- 
tical contradiction  which  facts  offered  to  the  assertion  of  Laura's 
death.  This  I  submitted  to  Mr.  Kyrle,  before  I  read  it,  the  next  day, 
to  the  assembled  tenants.  We  also  arranged  the  form  in  which  the 
evidence  should  be  presented  at  the  close  of  the  reading.  After 
these  matters  were  settled,  Mr.  Kyrle  endeavored  to  turn  the  con- 
versation next  to  Laura's  affairs.  Knowing,  and  desiring  to  know, 
nothing  of  those  affairs,  and  doubting  whether  he  would  approve,  as 
a  man  of  business,  of  my  conduct  in  relation  to  my  wife's  life-inter- 
est in  the  legacy  left  to  Madame  Fosco,  I  begged  Mr.  Kyrle  to  ex- 
cuse me  if  I  abstained  from  discussing  the  subject.  It  was  connect- 
ed, as  I  could  truly  tell  him,  with  those  sorrows  and  troubles  of  the 
past,  which  we  never  referred  to  among  ourselves,  and  which  we  in- 
stinctively shrank  from  discussing  with  others. 

My  last  labor,  as  the  evening  approached,  was  to  obtain  "  The 
Narrative  of  the  Tombstone,"  by  taking  a  copy  of  the  false  inscrip- 
tion on  the  grave  before  it  was  erased. 

The  day  came — the  day  when  Laura  once  more  entered  the  famil- 
iar breakfast-room  at  Limmeridge  House.  All  the  persons  assem- 
bled rose  from  their  seats  as  Marian  and  I  led  her  in.  A  percepti- 
ble shock  of  surprise,  an  audible  murmur  of  interest,  ran  through 
them,  at  the  sight  of  her  face.  Mr.  Fairlie  was  j^resent  (by  my  ex- 
press stipulation),  with  Mr.  Kyrle  by  his  side.  His  valet  stood  be- 
hind him  with  a  smelling-bottle  ready  in  one  hand,  and  a  white 
handkerchief,  saturated  with  eau-de-Cologne,  in  the  other. 

I  opened  the  j^roceedings  by  publicly  ai)pealing  to  Mr.  Fairlie  to 
say  whether  I  appeared  there  with  his  authority  and  under  his  ex- 
press sanction.  He  extended  an  arm  on  either  side  to  Mr.  Kyrle 
and  to  his  valet ;  was  by  them  assisted  to  stand  on  his  legs ;  and 
then  expressed  himself  in  these  terms  :  "  Allow  me  to  present  Mr. 
Hartright.  I  am  as  great  an  invalid  as  ever ;  and  he  is  so  very 
obliging  as  to  speak  for  me.  The  subject  is  dreadfully  embarrassing. 
Please  hear  him — and  don't  make  a  noise  !"  With  those  words,  he 
slowly  sank  back  again  into  the  chair,  and  took  retuge  in  his 
scented  pocket-handkerchief. 

The  disclosure  of  the  conspiracy  followed — after  I  had  offered  my 
preliminary  explanation,  first  of  all,  in  the  fewest  and  the  plainest 
words.  I  was  there  present  (I  informed  my  hearers)  to  declare  first, 
that  my  wife,  then  sitting  by  me,  was  the  daughter  of  the  late 
Mr.  Philip  Fairlie;  secondly,  to  prove  by  positive  facts  that  the 
funeral  which  they  had  attended  in  Limmeridge  church-yard  was 


542  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

tlie  funeral  of  another  woman ;  tliirdly,  to  give  tliem  a  plain  account 
of  how  it  had  all  Jiappened.  Without  further  preface,  I  at  once 
read  the  narrative  of  the  conspiracy,  describing  it  in  clear  outline, 
and  dwelling  only  upon  the  pecuniary  motive  for  it,  in  order  to 
avoid  complicating  my  statement  l)y  unnecessary  reference  to  Sir 
Percival's  secret.  This  done,  I  reminded  my  audience  of  the  date 
on  the  inscription  in  the  church-yard  (the  25th),  and  confirmed  its 
correctness  by  producing  the  certificate  of  deatli.  I  then  read  them 
Sir  Percival's  letter  of  the  25th,  announcing  his  wife's  intended 
journey  from  Hampshire  to  London  on  the  2Gth.  I  next  showed 
that  she  had  taken  that  journey  by  the  personal  testimony  of  the 
driver  of  the  fly ;  and  I  proved  that  she  had  performed  it  on  the  aj>- 
pointed  day  by  the  order-book  at  the  livery-stables.  Marian  then 
added  her  own  statement  of  the  meeting  between  Laura  and  herself 
at  the  mad-house,  and  of  her  sister's  escape.  After  which  I  closed 
the  proceedings  by  informing  the  persons  present  of  Sir  Percival's 
death,  and  of  my  marriage. 

Mr.  Kyrle  rose,  when  I  resumed  my  seat,  and  declared,  as  the  le- 
gal adviser  of  the  family,  that  my  case  was  proved  by  the  j^lainest 
evidence  he  had  ever  heard  in  his  life.  As  he  spoke  those  words,  I 
put  my  arm  round  Laura,  and  raised  her  so  that  she  was  j^lainly 
visible  to  every  one  in  the  room.  "Are  you  all  of  the  same  opin- 
ion ?"  I  asked,  advancing  toward  them  a  few  steps,  and  pointing  to 
my  wife. 

The  effect  of  the  question  was  electrical.  Far  down  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  room,  one  of  the  oldest  tenants  on  the  estate  started  to 
his  feet,  and  led  the  rest  with  him  in  an  instant.  I  see  the  man 
now,  with  his  honest  brown  face  and  his  iron-gray  hair,  mounted 
on  the  window-seat,  waving  his  heavy  riding-whip  over  his  head, 
and  leading  the  cheers.  "  There  she  is,  alive  and  hearty — God 
Ijless  her !  Gi'  it  tongue,  lads  !  Gi'  it  tongue  I"  The  shout  tliat 
answered  him,  reiterated  again  and  again,  was  the  sweetest  music 
I  ever  heard.  The  laborers  in  the  village  and  the  boys  from  the 
school,  assembled  on  the  lawn,  caught  up  the  cheering  and  echoed 
it  back  on  us.  The  farmers'  wives  clustered  round  Laura,  and 
struggled  which  should  be  first  to  shake  hands  with  her,  and  to  im- 
plore her,  with  the  tears  pouring  over  their  own  cheeks,  to  bear  up 
bravely,  and  not  to  cry.  She  was  so  completely  overwhelmed,  that 
I  was  obliged  to  take  her  from  them,  and  carry  her  to  the  door. 
There  I  gave  her  into  Marian's  care — Marian,  who  had  nicver  failed 
us  yet,  whose  courageous  self-control  did  not  fail  us  now.  Left  by 
myself  at  the  door,  I  invited  all  the  persons  present  (after  thanking 
them  in  Laura's  name  and  mine)  to  follow  me  to  the  church-yard, 
and  see  the  false  inscription  struck  off  the  tombstone  with  their 
own  eyes. 


TUE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  543 

Thej'  all  left  the  house,  and  all  joined  the  throng  of  villagers  col- 
lected round  the  grave,  where  the  statuary's  man  was  waiting  for 
us.  In  a  breathless  silence,  the  first  sharj)  stroke  of  the  steel  sound- 
ed on  the  marble.  Xot  a  voice  was  heard,  not  a  soul  moved,  till 
those  three  words,  '*  Laura,  Lady  Glyde,"'  had  vanished  from  siglit. 
Then  there  was  a  great  heave  of  relief  among  the  crowd,  as  if  they 
felt  that  the  last  fetters  of  the  conspiracy  had  been  struck  off  Laura 
hei*self,  and  the  assembly  slowly  withdrew.  It  was  late  in  the  day 
before  the  whole  inscription  was  erased.  One  line  only  was  after 
ward  engraved  in  its  place:  "Anne  Catherick,  July  25th,  1850." 

I  returned  to  Limmeridge  House  early  enough  in  the  evening  to 
take  leave  of  Mr.  Kyrle.  He  and  his  clerk,  and  the  driver  of  the 
fly,  went  back  to  London  by  the  night  train.  On  their  departure, 
an  insolent  message  was  delivered  to  me  from  Mr.  Fairlie,  who  had 
Ijeen  carried  from  the  room  in  a  shattered  condition  when  the  first 
outbreak  of  cheering  answered  my  appeal  to  the  tenantry.  The 
message  conveyed  to  us  ''  Mr.  Fairlie's  best  congratulations,''  and  re- 
quested to  know  whether  "  we  contemplated  stopping  in  the  house." 
I  sent  back  word  that  the  only  object  for  which  we  had  entered  his 
doors  was  accomplished ;  that  I  contemplated  stopping  in  no  man's 
house  but  my  own  ;  and  that  Mr.  Fairlie  need  not  entertain  the 
slightest  apprehension  of  ever  seeing  us,  or  hearing  from  us  again. 
We  went  back  to  our  friends  at  the  farm  to  rest  that  night ;  and  the 
next  morning — escorted  to  the  station,  with  the  heartiest  enthusiasm 
and  good-will,  by  the  whole  village,  and  by  all  the  farmers  in  the 
neighborhood — we  returned  to  London, 

As  our  view  of  the  Cumberland  hills  faded  in  the  distance,  I 
thought  of  the  first  disheartening  circumstances  under  which  the 
long  struggle  that  was  now  past  and  over  had  been  pursued.  It  was 
strange  to  look  back  and  to  see  now,  that  the  poverty  which  had 
denied  us  all  hope  of  assistance,  had  been  the  indirect  means  of  our 
success,  by  forcing  me  to  act  for  myself.  If  we  had  been  rich  enough 
to  find  legal  help,  what  would  have  been  the  result  ?  The  gain  (on 
Mr.  Kyrle's  own  showing)  would  have  been  more  than  doubtful ;  the 
loss — judging  by  the  plain  test  of  events  as  they  had  really  happen- 
ed— certain.  The  Law  would  never  have  obtained  me  my  inter- 
view with  Mrs.  Catherick.  The  Law  would  never  have  made  Pesca 
the  means  of  forcing  a  confession  from  the  Count, 

n. 

Two  more  events  remain  to  be  added  to  the  chain,  before  it 
reaches  fairly  from  the  outset  of  the  story  to  the  close. 

While  our  new  sense  of  freedom  from  the  long  oppression  of  the 
past  was  still  strange  to  us,  I  was  sent  for  by  the  friend  who  had 
given  me  my  first  employment  in  wood-engraving,  to  receive  from 


644  THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE. 

him  a  fresh  testiir.ony  of  liis  regard  for  my  welfare.  lie  had  been 
commissioned  by  his  employers  to  go  to  Paris,  and  to  examine  for 
them  a  French  discovery  in  the  practical  application  of  his  Art  the 
merits  of  which  they  were  anxious  to  ascertain.  His  own  engage- 
ments had  not  allowed  him  leisure  time  to  undertake  the  errand, 
and  he  had  most  kindly  suggested  that  it  should  be  transferred  to 
me.  I  could  have  no  hesitation  in  thankfully  accei)ting  the  offer; 
for  if  I  acquitted  myself  of  my  commission  as  I  hoped  I  should,  the 
result  would  be  a  permanent  engagement  on  the  illustrated  newspa- 
per, to  which  I  was  now  only  occasionally  attached. 

I  received  my  instructions  and  packed  up  for  the  journey  the  next 
day.  On  leaving  Laura  once  more  (under  what  changed  circum- 
stances !)  in  her  sister's  care,  a  serious  consideration  recurred  to  me, 
which  had  more  than  once  crossed  my  wife's  mind,  as  well  as  my 
own,  already — I  mean  the  consideration  of  Marian's  future.  Had 
we  any  right  to  let  our  selfish  affection  accept  the  devotion  of  all 
that  generous  life  ?  Was  it  not  our  duty,  our  best  expression  of 
gratitude,  to  forget  ourselves,  and  to  think  only  of  her  ?  I  tried  to 
say  this,  when  we  were  alone  for  a  moment,  before  I  went  away. 
She  took  my  hand,  and  silenced  me  at  the  first  words. 

"After  all  that  we  three  have  suffered  together,"  she  said,  "  there 
can  be  no  parting  between  us  till  the  last  parting  of  all.  My  heart 
and  my  happiness,  Walter,  are  with  Laura  and  you.  Wait  a  little 
till  there  are  children's  voices  at  your  fireside.  I  will  teach  them  to 
speak  for  me  in  their  language  ;  and  the  first  lesson  they  say  to  their 
father  and  mother  shall  be — We  can't  spare  our  aunt !" 

My  journey  to  Paris  was  not  undertaken  alone.  At  the  eleventh 
hour  Pesca  decided  that  he  would  accompany  me.  He  had  not  re- 
covered his  customary  cheerfulness  since  the  night  at  the  Opera ; 
and  he  determined  to  try  what  a  week's  holiday  would  do  to  raise 
his  spirits. 

I  performed  the  errand  intrusted  to  me,  and  drew  out  the  neces- 
sary report,  on  the  fourth  day  from  our  arrival  in  Paris.  Tlie  fifth 
day  I  arranged  to  devote  to  sight-seeing  and  amusements  in  Pesca's 
company. 

Our  hotel  had  been  too  full  to  accommodate  us  both  on  the  same 
floor.  My  room  was  on  the  second  story,  and  Pesca's  was  above 
me,  on  the  third.  On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day,  I  went  up  stairs 
to  see  if  the  Professor  was  ready  to  go  out.  Just  before  I  reached 
the  landing,  I  saw  his  door  opened  from  the  inside  ;  a  long,  delicate, 
nervous  hand  (not  my  friend's  hand  certainly)  held  it  ajar.  At  the 
same  time  I  heard  Pesca's  voice  saying  eagerly,  in  low  tones,  and 
in  his  own  language:  "I  remember  the  name,  but  I  don't  know 
the  man.     You  saw  at  the  Opera  he  was  so  changed  that  I  could 


THE    WOMAN    IN    WHITE.  545 

not  recognize  him,  I  will  forward  the  report — I  can  do  no  more." 
'•  Xo  more  need  be  done,"  answered  a  second  voice.  The  door 
opened  wide ;  and  the  light-haired  man  with  the  scar  on  his  cheek 
— the  man  I  had  seen  following  Count  Fosco's  cab  a  week  before — 
came  out.  He  bowed,  as  I  drew  aside  to  let  him  pass — his  face  was 
fearfully  pale — and  he  held  fast  by  the  banisters  as  he  descended 
the  stairs. 

I  pushed  open  the  door,  and  entered  Pesca's  room.  He  was 
crouched  up,  in  the  strangest  manner,  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  He 
seemed  to  shrink  from  me  when  I  apjiroached  him. 

"Am  I  disturbing  you?"  I  asked.  '^I  did  not  know  you  had  a 
friend  with  you  till  I  saw  him  come  out." 

'*  No  friend,"  said  Pesca,  eagerly.  "  I  see  him  to-day  for  the  first 
time,  and  the  last." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  has  brought  you  bad  news  ?" 

"Horrible  news,  Walter!  Let  us  go  back  to  London  —  I  don't 
want  to  stop  here — I  am  sorry  I  ever  came.  The  misfortunes  of  my 
youth  are  very  hard  upon  me,"  he  said,  turning  his  face  to  the  wall : 
"  very  hard  upon  me  in  my  later  time.  I  try  to  forget  them — and 
they  will  not  forget  me  /" 

'"  We  can't  return,  I  am  afraid,  before  the  afternoon,"  I  replied, 
"  Would  you  like  to  come  out  with  me,  in  the  mean  time  ?" 

"  No,  my  friend ;  I  will  wait  here.  But  let  us  go  back  to-day — 
pray  let  us  go  back." 

I  left  him  with  the  assurance  that  he  should  leave  Paris  that 
afternoon.  We  had  arranged,  the  evening  before,  to  ascend  the 
Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame,  with  Victor  Hugo's  noble  romance  for 
our  guide.  There  was  nothing  in  the  French  capital  that  I  was 
more  anxious  to  see,  and  I  departed  by  myself  for  the  church. 

Approaching  Notre  Dame  by  the  river-side,  I  passed,  on  my  way, 
the  terrible  dead-house  of  Paris  —  the  Morgue.  A  great  crowd 
clamored  and  heaved  round  the  door.  There  was  evidently  some- 
thing inside  v.'hich  excited  the  popular  curiosity,  and  fed  the  popu- 
lar appetite  for  horror. 

I  should  have  walked  on  to  the  church,  if  the  conversation  of  two 
men  and  a  woman  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  had  not  caught  my 
ear.  They  had  just  come  out  from  seeing  the  sight  in  the  Morgue ; 
and  the  account  they  were  giving  of  the  dead  body  to  their  neigh- 
bors, described  it  as  the  corpse  of  a  man — a  man  of  immense  size, 
with  a  strange  mark  on  his  left  arm. 

The  moment  those  words  reached  me,  I  stopped,  and  took  my 
place  with  the  crowd  going  in.  Some  dim  foreshadowing  of  the 
truth  had  crossed  my  mind  when  I  heard  Pesca's  voice  through  the 
open  door,  and  when  I  saw  the  stranger's  face  as  he  passed  me  on 
the  stairs  of  the  hotel.  Now  the  truth  itself  was  revealed  to  me — • 
revealed,  in  the  chance  words  that  had  just  reached  my  ears.    Other 


646  TIIK    WOMAN    IN    AVIIITE. 

vengeance  tlian  mine  liad  followed  that  fated  man  from  the  theatre 
to  his  own  door ;  from  liis  own  door  to  his  refuge  in  Paris.  Other 
vengeance  than  mine  had  called  him  to  the  day  of  reckoning,  and 
liad  exacted  from  him  the  penalty  of  his  life.  The  moment  when  I 
had  pointed  him  out  to  Pesca  at  the  theatre,  in  the  liearing  of  that 
stranger  by  our  side,  who  was  looking  for  him  too — was  the  moment 
that  sealed  his  doom.  I  remembered  the  struggle  in  my  own  heart 
wdien  he  and  I  stood  face  to  face — the  struggle  before  I  could  let 
him  escape  me — and  shuddered  as  I  recalled  it. 

Slowly,  inch  by  inch,  I  pressed  in  with  the  crowd,  moving  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  great  glass  screen  that  parts  the  dead  from  the 
living  at  the  Morgue — nearer  and  nearer,  till  I  was  close  behind  the 
front  row  of  spectators,  and  could  look  in. 

There  he  lay,  unowned,  unknown ;  exposed  to  the  tiippant  curiosi- 
ty of  c.  French  mob !  There  was  the  dreadful  end  of  that  long  life 
of  degraded  ability  and  heartless  crime !  Hushed  in  the  sublime 
repose  of  death,  the  broad,  firm,  massive  face  and  head  fronted  us 
so  grandly,  that  the  chattering  Frenchwomen  about  me  lifted  their 
hands  in  admiration,  and  cried,  in  shrill  chorus,  "Ah,  what  a  hand- 
some man  !"  The  wound  that  had  killed  him  had  been  struck  with 
a  knife  or  dagger  exactly  over  his  heart.  No  other  traces  of  violence 
appeared  about  the  body  except  on  the  left  arm ;  and  there,  exactly 
in  the  place  where  I  had  seen  the  brand  on  Pesca's  arm,  were  two 
deep  cuts  in  the  shape  of  the  letter  T,  which  entirely  obliterated  the 
mark  of  the  Brotherhood.  His  clothes,  hung  about  him,  showed 
that  he  had  been  himself  conscious  of  his  danger  ;  they  were  clothes 
that  had  disguised  him  as  a  French  artisan.  For  a  few  moments,  but 
not  for  longer,  I  forced  myself  to  see  these  things  through  the  glass 
screen.     I  can  write  of  them  at  no  greater  length,  for  I  saw  no  more. 

The  few  facts,  in  connection  with  his  death  which  I  subsequently 
ascertained  (partly  from  Pesca  and  partly  from  other  sources),  may 
be  stated  here,  Ijefore  the  subject  is  dismissed  from  these  pages. 

His  body  Avas  taken  out  of  the  Seine,  in  the  disguise  which  I  have 
described ;  nothing  being  found  on  him  which  revealed  his  name, 
his  rank,  or  his  place  of  abode.  The  hand  that  struck  him  was 
never  traced,  and  the  circumstances  under  which  he  was  killed  were 
never  discovered.  I  leave  others  to  draw  their  own  conclusions  in 
reference  to  the  secret  of  the  assassination,  as  I  have  drawn  mine. 
When  I  have  intimated  that  the  foreigner  with  the  scar  was  a  Mem- 
ber of  the  Brotherhood  (admitted  in  Italy,  after  Pesca's  departure 
from  his  native  country),  and  when  I  have  further  added  that  the 
two  cuts,  in  the  form  of  a  T,  on  the  left  arm  of  the  dead  man,  sigai- 
fied  the  Italian  word,  "  Traditore,''  and  showed  that  justice  had  been 
done  by  the  Brotherhood  on  a  traitor,  I  have  contributed  all  that  I 
know  toward  elucidating  the  mystery  of  Count  Fosco's  death. 


THE    WOMAN    IX    WHITE.  547 

The  body  was  identified,  the  da}'  after  I  had  seen  it,  by  means  of 
an  anonymous  letter  addressed  to  his  wife.  He  was  buried  by  Ma- 
dame Fosco  in  the  cemetery  of  P^re  hi  Chaise.  Fresh  funeral  wreaths 
continue,  to  this  day,  to  be  hung  on  the  ornamental  bronze  railings 
round  the  tomb  by  the  Countess's  own  hand.  She  lives,  in  the 
strictest  retirement,  at  Versailles,  Not  long  since  she  published  a 
Biography  of  her  deceased  husband.  The  work  throws  no  light 
whatever  on  the  name  that  was  really  his  own,  or  on  the  secret  his- 
tory of  his  life :  it  is  almost  entirely  devoted  to  the  praise  of  his  do- 
mestic virtues,  the  assertion  of  his  rare  abilities,  and  the  enumeration 
of  the  honors  conferred  on  him.  The  circumstances  attending  his 
death  are  very  briefly  noticed  ;  and  are  summed  up  on  the  last  page 
in  this  sentence :  "  His  life  was  one  long  assertion  of  the  rights  of 
the  aristocracy,  and  the  sacred  principles  of  Order,  and  he  died  a 
Martvr  to  his  cause." 

III. 

The  summer  and  autumn  passed,  after  my  return  from  Paris,  and 
brought  no  changes  with  them  M'hich  need  be  noticed  here.  "We 
lived  so  simply  and  quietly,  that  the  income  which  I  was  now  stead- 
ily earning  sutficed  for  all  our  wants. 

In  the  February  of  the  new  year  our  first  child  was  born — a  son. 
My  mother  and  sister  and  Mrs.  Vesey  were  our  guests  at  the  little 
christening-part}" ;  and  Mrs.  Clements  was  present,  to  assist  my  wife, 
on  the  same  occasion.  Marian  was  our  boy's  godmother  ;  and  Pes- 
ca  and  Mr.  Gilmore  (the  latter  acting  by  proxy)  were  his  godfathers. 
I  may  add  here,  that,  when  Mr.  Gilmore  returned  to  us,  a  year  later, 
he  assisted  the  design  of  these  pages,  at  my  request,  by  writing 
the  Narrative  which  appeal's  early  in  the  story  under  his  name,  and 
which,  though  first  in  order  of  precedence,  was  thus,  in  order  of 
time,  the  last  that  I  received. 

The  only  event  in  our  lives  v,hich  now  remains  to  be  recorded  oc- 
curred when  our  little  Walter  was  six  months  old. 

At  that  time  I  was  sent  to  Ireland,  to  make  sketches  for  certain 
forthcoming  illustrations  in  the  newspaper  to  v,  liicli  I  was  attaclied. 
I  was  away  for  nearly  a  fortnight,  corresponding  regularly  with  my 
wife  and  Marian,  except  during  the  last  three  days  of  my  absence, 
when  my  movements  were  too  uncertain  to  enable  me  to  receive  let- 
ters. I  performed  the  latter  part  of  my  journey  back  at  night ;  and 
when  I  reached  home  in  the  morning,  to  my  utter  astonishment, 
there  was  no  one  to  receive  me.  Laura  and  Marian  and  the  child 
had  left  the  house  on  the  day  before  my  return. 

A  note  from  my  wife,  which  was  given  to  me  by  the  servant,  only 
increased  my  surj^rise  by  informing  me  that  they  had  gone  to  Lim- 
meridge  House.  Marian  had  prohibited  any  attempt  at  written  ex- 
planations—  I  was  entreated  to  follow  them  the  moment  I  came 
back — complete  enlightenment  awaited  me  on  my  arrival  in  Cum- 


5413  THE    WOMAN   IN   -WHITE. 

])cilan(l — and  I  was  forbidden  to  feel  tlie  slightest  anxiety  in  the 
mean  time.     There  the  note  ended. 

It  was  still  early  enough  to  catch  the  morning  train.  I  reached 
Limmeridge  House  the  same  afternoon. 

My  wife  and  Marian  were  both  up  stairs.  They  had  established 
tJiemselves  (by  way  of  completing  my  amazement)  in  the  little  room 
which  had  been  once  assigned  to  me  for  a  studio  when  I  was  em- 
ployed on  Mr.  Fairlie's  drawings.  On  the  very  chair  which  I  used 
to  occupy  when  I  was  at  w^ork  Marian  was  sitting  now,  with  the 
child  industriously  sucking  his  coral  upon  her  lap,  while  Laura  was 
standing  by  the  well-remembered  drawing-table  which  I  had  so 
often  used,  with  the  little  album  that  I  had  filled  for  her  in  past 
times  open  under  her  hand. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  Heaven  has  brought  you  here  ?"  I  asked. 
"  Does  Mr.  Fairlie  know—  ?" 

Marian  suspended  the  question  on  my  lips,  by  telling  me  that  Mr. 
Fairlie  was  dead.  He  had  been  struck  by  paralysis,  and  had  never 
rallied  after  the  shock.  3Ir.  Kyrle  had  informed  them  of  his  death, 
and  had  advised  them  to  proceed  immediately  to  Limmeridge 
House. 

Some  dim  perception  of  a  great  change  dawned  on  my  mind. 
Laura  spoke  before  I  had  quite  realized  it.  She  stole  close  to  me, 
to  enjoy  the  surprise  which  was  still  expressed  in  my  face. 

"My  darling  Walter,"  she  said,  "must  we  really  account  for  our 
])oldness  in  coming  here  ?  I  am  afraid,  love,  I  can  only  explain  it 
by  breaking  through  our  rule,  and  referring  to  the  past." 

"  There  is  not  the  least  necessity  for  doing  any  thing  of  the  kind," 
said  Marian.  "  We  can  be  just  as  explicit,  and  much  more  interest- 
ing, by  referring  to  the  future."  She  rose,  and  held  up  the  child, 
kicking  and  crowing  in  her  arms.  "  Do  you  know  who  this  is, 
Walter  ?"  she  asked,  with  bright  tears  of  happiness  gathering  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Even  my  bewilderment  has  its  limits,"  I  replied.  "  I  think  I 
can  still  answer  for  knowing  my  own  child." 

"  Child  I"  she  exclaimed,  with  all  her  easy  gayety  of  old  times. 
"  Do  you  talk  in  that  familiar  manner  of  one  of  the  landed  gentry 
of  England  ?  Are  you  aware,  when  I  present  this  illustrious  baby 
to  your  notice,  in  whose  presence  you  stand  ?  Evidently  not !  Let 
me  make  two  eminent  personages  known  to  one  another :  ]\Ir.  Wal- 
ter Hartright — the  Ueb"  of  Limmeridge.'"' 

So  she  spoke.  In  writing  those  last  words,  I  have  written  all. 
The  pen  falters  in  my  hand;  the  long,  happy  labor  of  many  months 
is  over  !  ^larian  was  the  good  angel  of  our  lives — let  Marian  end 
our  Storj\ 

THE    END. 


J" 


f.  .;^' 


r- 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


TOTD  LO-URD 


t5)      jUN2»-^^iJu-l/RC 


6  1988 


*r 


,      -WHTD  tD-U| 

^UN  16  1^77 


D^scH^R 


^  FfB    6 198G 

FEB     7  i: 


:5UN2  5  1985   jui    MAVOyiggj^ 


WAR  1  7  1992 


iE-URt 


REC'D  URL  CIRC 

MAY  19  1991 


91979 


Book  Slip — Series  4280 


i3 1158  00383  6474 


lii 


■It  ^1 

rii  r 

11 J  Ji , 


li 
i 

■ 

1 

